


Shameless as an ocean

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Angst & Humor, Banter, Blood Drinking, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, Light BDSM, M/M, M/M/M/M - Foursome, Magic, Mostly humor, Multiple Endings, Multiverse, Polyamory, Pseudo-Incest, Rimming, Roleplay, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Spanking, Telepathy, Time Travel, polyamory negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 02:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15451143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "At *some* point? You're going to have to stop making decisions based on what's best for the *other* people in your life."





	1. You should probably start worrying several minutes ago.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts), [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: AU-ized mentions to assorted references up through S3. Takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: I've written a couple of things now where Treville and Porthos talk about what might have happened had they somehow met when Treville was younger, with Porthos still being an adult. I decided to finally send *Porthos* back in time. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: Many, many, *many* people have helped me with this thing as I stopped, started, stopped again, started again, etc., etc., *etc.*. Some of them: Pixie, Melly, Spice, Houndstar, Greyandgold, Liz, and, of course, my Jack. Much love and always, *always* my gratitude.

It doesn't take long for everything — *everything* — to feel wrong. 

For one thing, Porthos doesn't recognize *anyone*. 

For another, he doesn't recognize any of the *horses* — and, this close to the garrison, he practically knows the life *story* of every single horse around, whether or *not* they're a garrison horse. 

And — the guns are wrong.

The guns are — 

He knows that sound — of course he does; when he was a recruit, he lived and breathed and ate and *slept* that noise. 

But the shots are coming from the *older* guns. 

The guns *only* the recruits train with, and then only until they're *competent* enough to be handed the newer and better weapons. 

This — 

It sounds like every man *in* there is using — 

And he doesn't *recognize* the men on the watch — except. 

Except he recognizes one of the ones *talking* to the men on the watch really. 

Sodding. 

Well. 

It — 

It's Treville, only his leathers don't look old and well-used and supple. They look *new*, and those are the marks of a bloody *lieutenant*, and his hair is *all* brown, and so is his beard and moustache, and — 

He's younger. 

He's —

He's *obviously* younger. 

And Porthos — 

Well, he was raised around witches. He's heard of — all sorts of things. 

*This isn't bloody one of them*. 

But he knows when he needs help. 

He pulls off his brassard before it gets him into *bad* trouble, tucks it into his saddlebag, and — 

And. 

Right, he's no bloody coward. 

He moves out of the bustling crowd and up to the men talking at the garrison's gate — 

"— *told* you, meneur, it was not our fault!" That from the tall, pretty redhead, with hair halfway down his back, and kind of wild and dangerous-looking olive-green eyes. 

"Right, but —" 

The massive, dark-haired one with the beard down to his belly and wavy hair down to his shoulders laughs hard and loud. "It actually wasn't this time, Fearless! Well, mostly." 

Fearless? Bloody *ringleader*? No, he'll be patient — 

"Oui, mostly —" 

"*What* wasn't your fault? We're bloody lieutenants now; we have to avoid making arseholes out of ourselves *sometimes*." 

And that's the Treville he knows and loves — 

Sort of — 

"Well... ah..." 

"Reynard, *what*." 

Reynard — the redhead — winces. "Well, there was a woman..." 

"Aye, a woman —" 

"I picked that *up*, you giant berk. Kitos, you — all right, *who* did she tell you was threatening her or hurting her or —" 

"Ah..." 

"Erm..." 

And Treville's eyes *flash* a hot blue and he *snarls* like a bloody *dog* and Porthos — 

Has no bloody clue where he is — 

What he's doing — 

What he's doing *here* — 

"Uhh... Fearless..." 

"*Fuck*," Treville says, giving himself a little shake. "Don't make me *do* that so often, you pillocks!" 

Kitos makes soothing gestures —

Reynard makes soothing *noises* — 

And then Kitos looks at *him* exactly like he's pondering all the ways he can break Porthos into tiny pieces if Porthos causes any bloody trouble. Which — 

Porthos raises his hands. 

"Bloody *what*, Kitos —" And Treville whirls on Porthos — 

Narrows his eyes — 

Lifts his *nose* — 

"Meneur..." 

"I'll talk to you two in a minute. I have to talk to this man right bloody now." 

Porthos is not *exactly* sure he wants to — 

But — 

Fuck, this is the closest thing he has to help here. This — 

*Fuck*. 

What kind of world is it when *Treville* is a witch?

And there's his hand on Porthos's arm, strong and hard and *familiar* — 

Except that he's *hauling* Porthos over to the teahouse, and Treville had never been that *proprietary* with him, and — 

Fuck. 

He's not a bloody — 

"Treville." 

"Why do you know my name." 

"Because —" Porthos shakes his head and growls. "I know it for the same reason *you* knew you had to talk to me." 

"I knew I had to *talk* to you because — no, wait," Treville says, and hauls them into the teahouse, which is dim and quiet and mostly empty this time of day. 

Treville nods to the unfamiliar maid, and leads them to the darkest corner of the room. 

Porthos takes this table with Aramis *often* — 

Porthos takes tables *like* this in taverns and dives with *Athos* and Aramis all the bloody time — and. 

"Treville. If you try to throw me into a chair, I *will* punch you." 

That gets the man to grin at him -- and let go. "Will you, now. All right, then. Sit or stand, whatever you prefer," he says, and sits. *Obnoxiously*. 

Porthos sits, too. "Tell me why you had to talk to me." 

"There's magic swirling around you like a storm. It's putting my back up like --" Treville shakes his head. "It's dissipating rapidly, but *something* happened to you *very* recently that involved a large amount of power being expended. I didn't *feel* it happening. That *worries* me." 

"I —" 

"Tell me why you're dressed like the world's fanciest Musketeer." 

Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it. Both Kitos's and Reynard's leathers were plain like Treville's. Right, fine. He leans in. "Where I come from, *our* leathers have a bit more style than yours." 

"So you are one of us." And Treville grins again. 

"Yes, sir — I mean —" 

Treville blinks slowly. And cocks his head. "You're from the future. A future where I'm the Captain."

"I — fuck. Yeah, I guess I am. I'm not *familiar* with this kind of magic." 

"But you *are* familiar with magic." 

"I grew up with witches, sir —" 

"Wait." 

"What?" 

"You cannot, absolutely *cannot*, call me 'sir'." 

"Uhh..." 

"I know. You've been a Musketeer for... how long?" 

"I got my commission two and a half years ago. I was in training for eight months before then." 

"So you have over three *years* of me being the Captain —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"What's your name?" 

"Porthos —" 

"Porthos. Last night, after I left those two arseholes to get themselves in hot water chasing after *women*? *I* went to a boys' brothel of my acquaintance and spent the evening fucking and *knotting* a lovely little honey-blond named Serge with freckles on his nose — and on his jiggly arse." 

"Uh." 

"This is after I *thoroughly* ate the arse in question." 

"You —" 

"With my *long* tongue," Treville says, and — lolls his tongue. 

Like a dog. 

Like a *laughing* dog. 

The light in his eyes, though — that's still a little serious. 

Porthos shakes himself a little and nods. "You've made your point, Treville." 

"Have I? I'm just another arsehole here. Threatening to punch me for hauling you around -- that's the best possible plan for you. *Yes*, the smart man's money puts me on the *short* list to be Captain *someday*, but very, very few people know *how* short that list is. And that's how it *has* to be, for now, because the Queen-Regent still occasionally looks at me like she'd like to throw me back in gaol."

Porthos *blinks*. 

Treville smiles wryly. "Your Treville is a better politician? The Queen-Regent never came to power? Something else?" 

"No, I — she *did*. But — uh. Louis banished her." 

"He grew a *spine*?" 

"Briefly. It was a pretty exciting time — you were part of it." 

Treville blinks and leans back, narrowing his eyes and *obviously* considering how to make that happen here, which — 

Bloody wonderful, but not quite helpful for *Porthos's* problem. 

"Treville..." 

"I have to get you enlisted."

"Wait, what --" 

"I have to get you *less-exciting clothes* —" 

"I *like* my clothes —" 

"They'll get you too much of the wrong sorts of attention. You know that." 

"Right, right. But -- enlisted?"

Treville raises his eyebrows. "You're going to have to have a *reason* to be hanging around the lieutenants, Porthos."

"Right -- got it. Uh — I guess I don't have to ask if you *have* leathers that are big enough." 

Treville grins wickedly and waggles his eyebrows. "They grow them big in the forests." 

Porthos snickers. "*How* big? Are you and Kitos...? And Reynard?" 

Treville actually looks down for that, blushing like a *boy*. "They're my loves, along with Laurent." 

"Your — wait. *Laurent d'Achille de la Fère* is your *lover*?" 

"Know him, do you?" And Treville's eyebrows are up. "His wife is, too." 

"Uhh. I know their son. Their eldest son." 

Treville blinks and grins like a new day. "Olivier becomes one of us? But that's *wonderful*. I love those boys, and Olivier is..." Treville shakes his head and sighs. "He's always been a prodigy." 

Porthos grins. "He's amazing, all right. He handled most of *my* training, even though the lieutenants were right there." 

"You're close." 

"He's my brother." 

"We're all —" 

"He's my *brother*." 

Treville grins wickedly again. "Then shouldn't you be my godson, Porthos...?" 

Porthos coughs. "Oh my *God*, Treville —" 

Treville snickers. "You really walked into that one. And, as an aside, assuming your Treville was getting up to the same things *I* am —" 

"I have no bloody *idea* —" 

"Ask him; see what happens, but —" 

Porthos *coughs* — 

The maid brings them both tea — 

Flashes Treville a smile *and* some cleavage — 

Porthos nods and toasts her — 

Treville bloody *flourishes* and *winks* — 

Bloody *hell* — 

And then he turns back. "As I was saying, *if* Olivier or Thomas were *my* blood-children, as opposed to Laurent's, I would've been able to feel them growing in Marie-Angelique's womb." 

"*Really*? What kind of witch *are* you?" 

"I'm — mostly — an earth-mage. However, I was born a *weak* earth-mage, and there were... rituals done to make me stronger that also gave me some degree of blood-magery. I..." Treville turns away. "I'm a shifter, as well." 

"I caught that; what's *wrong*?" 

Treville shows his teeth. "Leave that, please. That's... that's a grief I don't want to look at too deeply today." 

Porthos frowns and nods... and reaches across the table to cover Treville's hand with his own. 

Treville looks down at their hands and frowns — and then smiles wryly. 

And hums. 

"Is that who you are, Porthos...?" 

"What?" 

"You take care of people even if they're disturbing berks and buggerers who haven't said one helpful word to you?" 

Well... "I was going with the idea that you needed time to warm up." 

Treville... barks a laugh. "I'll help you. Of course I will. I haven't heard *much* about this kind of magic, but I have heard a *little* —" 

"From *who*?" 

"From — the witches who changed me. Strengthened me. Only one is still alive, now, but she's *extremely* powerful and *wise*. She'll know *something*. Or..."

Porthos shivers. "'Or'...?" 

Treville squeezes Porthos's hand. "Don't think about this now. *Don't*. But... you're a Musketeer, Porthos. That means you're already my brother, and Kitos's brother, and Reynard's brother, and *Laurent's* brother. Unless you somehow turn around and start acting like a pillock? We *will* find a place for you." 

"Shit —"

"A *home* for you." 

"I have to —" 

"Don't think about that. Just don't," Treville says, and knocks back his tea like a shot of liquor. "Let's go see Laurent — *him* you can 'sir' all you want."


	2. Fuck paradoxes.

Treville lets him walk back on his own power, thankfully, but it's *obvious* that Kitos and Reynard have been itching to find out who the bloody hell he *is*, and *what* Treville had to talk to him about. 

Porthos nods to them — 

They *look* at Treville — 

"There's no time for this, lads, and this *isn't* the place, but — short version: His name is Porthos, and he's a Musketeer either from the future or from the future on another *sphere*." 

"*Merde* —" 

"Are you *sure*?" 

"Very much so," Treville says, and shows his teeth. "The pistol on his hip would be enough for the former, and the things he's *told* me would be enough for the *latter*. We have to help him get back — somehow. In the meantime, he needs a place *here*. And that's what I'm about to see about." 

*That* makes a Reynard give him a long and measuring look — 

Kitos's look is *just* as measuring, though it's pretending not to be. 

"I'm not here to get in your way," Porthos says. "I'm not here to do anything but get *out* of here — and help where I can."

Kitos looks at Reynard — who is still looking at *Porthos* — and booms a laugh. "Don't worry, mate. Fox-face is just making sure you're not here to make time with Fearless." 

"*Verrat* —" 

Kitos *thunders* laughter — 

Porthos coughs *hard* — 

And Treville moves just a *little* too close to Reynard and lifts his chin. "You shouldn't get jealous, Reynard..." 

"Meneur, I —" 

"You shouldn't get jealous when and where I can't *reassure* you *properly*." 

Reynard's eyes flash in entirely *human* ways — 

He licks his *lips* — 

And Porthos is *reasonably* sure he can *feel* the man going loose both in ways that would make him easier to fuck and in ways that would make him a *lot* harder to take in a fight. 

When Aramis does that... 

When Aramis does that, it's everything Porthos can do to keep his big mouth *shut* and his hands to *himself* for the sake of their friendship.

It is definitely *interesting* to know he shares a type with his commanding — 

No. 

With Treville.

*Treville*. 

He has to think of the man that way, at least for now, at least until he gets back where he belongs — 

And now Treville is *growling* — 

And Reynard is giving him a *hungrily* hurt look and *shamelessly* adjusting himself in his trousers. 

*Right* — 

Kitos laughs *harder*. "They're like that, those two — and worse! You'll get used to it — Porthos, was it?" 

"Uh — yeah. And you're Kitos," Porthos says, and offers his hand — 

Kitos clasps forearms with him, just like that, and claps his shoulder with the other huge hand. And then leans in to whisper: "Your leathers are just a little less worn where that brassard in your saddlebag goes."

"Fuck —" 

Kitos laughs *more* — and turns to Reynard. "*Introduce* yourself, fox-face. Now that you've perfumed the air for our new mate and such." 

"*He* cannot smell —" 

"We all bloody can!" And Kitos laughs more and gives Porthos a little push. 

Porthos grins and offers Reynard his hand. "It's good to meet you, Reynard. I *definitely* don't want to get in your way — or on your bad side." 

Reynard clasps his forearm. "I am Reynard —" 

Treville whispers — loudly — in Porthos's ear: "And it's *lovely* musk." 

Porthos breathes deep, wags his head judiciously, and grins more. "You're a good-smelling man, mate."

Reynard raises an eyebrow and smiles — wickedly. "Did you want to get a closer... whiff?" 

Is *that* how these people are going to play this?

Well, he can play, too. Porthos leans in just a bit closer. "Well, I wouldn't want to trespass where I wasn't *wanted*, you understand..." 

"Non, non, bien sûr —" 

"But uh... I'm all alone here, Reynard. Far from home, like. I could use the warm, loving arms of —" 

And then Treville *scruffs* him and *hauls* him into the garrison — 

Porthos laughs helplessly, which is something he wasn't bloody expecting to *do* today — 

He can hear Kitos and Reynard laughing, *too* — 

And even Treville's *growls* sound like laughter. It — 

"You *could* let me walk, you know. *Sir*," Porthos says in a *quiet* voice — 

"*Fuck* —" 

Treville yanks his hand away like Porthos had *burned* him — 

Porthos stands straight and laughs *hard* — 

"You're an *arsehole*, Porthos." 

"And you're *not*?" 

Treville bites the tip of his tongue — and then gives him a crooked smile that either needs a smack or a kiss — shit — "I'm *definitely* an arsehole. But we've *work* to do." 

"*Absolutely*," Porthos says, and pulls on a mock-judicious face as they keep walking toward the Captain's office — 

Treville grunts and cuffs him lightly. "What was that?" 

*Shit* — "Nothing —" 

Treville looks at him. "We can play it that way. But we don't have to." 

Oh. "And you don't want to." 

Treville licks his lips. "I'm ah... I'm good at this." 

"At knowing when people are fucked in the head? Of course you are; you've got those senses —" 

"Not that. Well, yes that, but..." And Treville looks away again, and narrows his eyes. "Kitos always says I have good *instincts*. For people." 

"Uh. Yeah?" 

"Laurent does, too. In his way... anyway. We *can* play it where you don't tell me a damned thing when you're upset — or any other thing. But we can also... be mates." 

And Treville still isn't looking at him. 

Treville is *blushing* — 

Porthos is *staring* — 

"Your Treville is a real — he's hard, isn't he. A real *bastard*." 

"*No*, he's not —" 

"No? He just doesn't like *you*?" 

"He —" But. 

The way Treville had looked at him in their initial interview, like he was welcome and important and just right, even though they'd just met. Even though Porthos was straight out of the bloody Court of *Miracles*. 

The way Treville had always *treated* him. 

The way Treville had *subtly* given him advice on how to talk to Athos to make him open up a little, way back when. 

The way — 

"He *does* like you, but you never thought of it that way, because he's your superior *officer*." 

Porthos blinks... a lot. 

Treville laughs softly. "Captains are just men. Sometimes they're just dogs." 

"Uh — I don't know if my Treville *is* a dog." 

Treville frowns at him. 

"I *don't*." 

"You don't *know* or you think he *isn't*." 

"I —" Well, that *is* two different things. Porthos scratches his beard and heads for the stairs after Treville — 

He really *had* been getting a lot of looks from the other men — 

Even for a big, new man of colour who was armed to the teeth and moved — mysteriously — like a Musketeer. 

His poor, perfect clothes have to go. 

But — Treville. 

He *has* seen him lift his nose a few times, but that could've been innocent. 

He hasn't seen him sniff anyone or anything it wasn't reasonable *for* him to be sniffing — 

He didn't *seem* extra good at it or anything — 

His laughs are barks a *lot* of the time, but that —

All right, no. "I don't *know* if he's —"

"He's a dog. He just got better at hiding it in however many years separate us." 

"Right, fine, but — the other —" 

"We don't have to —" 

"I'd like that. To be your mate." 

Treville *rumbles* — and cuts that off sharp. "I — and my brothers?" 

Porthos smiles. "Yeah. They seem like a *great* time." 

Treville grins and rumbles more and — "I'm usually — slower. More of an arse."

"Yeah?" 

Treville shakes his head and absolutely doesn't mean no. "I think — but you're familiar with magery. You grew up with it." 

"Yeah —" 

Treville lifts his nose. "I can't — you're not a mage." 

"No —"

"But there's so much power *around* you — I can't help but —" He makes a frustrated noise and stops dead in the middle of the walk. "Also, Laurent should already be bracing us." 

"I'm considering a very thorny problem, Treville. Do come in — and bring your friend," Laurent — the *Captain* — calls. 

"Right, that's better," Treville says, and leads them the rest of the way. 

Porthos follows — 

And Laurent turns out to be an obviously *tall* — even sitting down — and *fit* man somewhere in his forties. He has a trim and neatly-kept beard and moustache, thick and relatively short — and neatly-kept — hair, and there is not one single thing out of place on his body or in his office. 

He's even holding the note he's reading at perfect right angles. 

Treville sighs fondly. "You just tell me when you're ready for us, sir." 

"Mm. By that 'us'..." And Laurent blinks once, sets the note down, and *dissects* Porthos with a look. 

It feels like being pinned to something under blazing *torches* — 

"He's a Musketeer." 

"Yes —" 

"How."

"He —" 

"Let him answer, brother," Laurent says, and stands. He's *exactly* as tall as Porthos, though less broad, and he's *damned* imposing. "Your name?" 

"Porthos, sir —" 

"Are you from another sphere?" 

"I don't know that, yet, sir. I definitely seem to be from the future, though," Porthos says, and nods to Treville. "He's my Captain there." 

Laurent nods. "That is only correct. Do you know how you came to be here?" 

"No, sir. I'd left my black Yves at the garrison overnight so he could be reshod early this morning, so I was walking in, and... suddenly things were different. The buildings weren't quite right. I couldn't recognize anyone. And, of course, by the time I got close to the garrison, the sounds of the guns were *all* wrong." 

Laurent stares *hungrily* at the pistol on Porthos's hip for long moments — 

Porthos moves to offer it to him — 

But Laurent raises a hand and comes round the desk to sit on the front of the thing. "I haven't studied nearly enough about gunsmithing to do more than frustrate and enrage myself abominably, but thank you." 

"You're welcome, sir. I... what can I do to make this easier on *you*?" 

Laurent's smile for that is *quirked* — 

"He's horribly kind, brother," Treville says. "We'll have to do something about that." 

"The way you have with Kitos...?" 

Treville frowns theatrically and nods — 

And Laurent loses about three hundred fifty tonnes of tension, just like that. The smile on his face is small, but the one in his eyes is young and wild and loving and —

And Treville is watching him *stare* at Laurent and smirking. 

"What is it, Porthos? Brother?" 

Treville reaches up to clap Porthos's shoulder. "Porthos is *Olivier's* brother." 

"He." Laurent blinks. "My..." And Laurent lowers his head, but the smile on his face is obvious — and a *lot* bigger — 

"I *saw* that, brother. You *can't keep blocking him* —" 

"I —" 

"He *wants* this life! Porthos, tell him!" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "He told me that it was the only thing he *ever* wanted, sir. That... that he always felt guilty for going against your wishes for him —" 

"I didn't *relent*?" 

Porthos winces. "Not before you passed away, sir." 

And Treville is — pale. 

Pale as a *sheet* — 

He's *gripping* Porthos's shoulder — 

And Laurent inhales deeply and nods. "Then there's no time to waste. I will talk to Olivier the next time —"

"How long do I *have*," Treville says, and spins Porthos to face him — 

"*Fuck*, you're strong —" 

"*Tell* me!" 

"I don't know, exactly! I just know — Athos is at least close to my age, and he joined the regiment six months before I did. He said his parents had died together in a carriage accident —" 

"A bloody *carriage* — *when*?" 

"A year before that! When Athos was twenty-one or just turning twenty-two." 

Treville shudders and squeezes him even harder. "He'll be sixteen this year, brother." 

"And I will not *hesitate* with him *or* Thomas, brother. I — and Marie-Angelique — will make sure we teach them everything we can —" 

"That's not what I'm *talking* about —" 

"Brother —" 

"*Laurent*. *Let* me." 

Laurent looks down again, and grips at the edge of the desk. "I cannot risk you being injured, brother," he says, quietly. 

"I have *enough* vitality for you *and* Marie-Angelique —" 

"And Kitos and Reynard? You have not asked Porthos about their fates." 

Treville goes pale again, but — 

"I don't know, Treville. I *don't*. At *all*. They could be living on Treville's *lands* —" 

"They would *never* stay away from the garrison for so bloody *long*!" 

"I —" 

Treville *snarls* — 

"Bloody *wait*, Treville," Porthos says, and grips his shoulders. "I know *this* kind of magic. I learned about it, eh? A blood-mage binds their loved ones, and then all of them kind of wax and wane *with* the blood-mage —" 

"Yes," Laurent says, standing, "and that is far too dangerous for a lieutenant of the King's Musketeers — much less *three* lieutenants —" 

"I do *not* mean to *interrupt* you, sir, but it would only be too dangerous if Treville were *only* a blood-mage. He's *earth*. All he has to do to feel better if he gets a little peaked is talk to the All-Mother. His *goddess*." 

And — they're *both* blinking at him. *Somehow*. 

"Treville? Do you *not* know this?" 

"I — the rituals that augmented me and —" He growls and shakes his head. "We *bypassed* the All-Mother. I was told that it was *better* that we do it that way, since we were upsetting the natural order of things by basically forcing new earth-mages on her." 

Earth-mages plural? No, no, that's not the most important thing. "That's not how it works, Treville. The All-Mother *loves* Her children. *All* of Her children. Even the ones She didn't uh. Pick. You really need to *talk* to Her." 

Treville nods slowly. "I can... I can ask Ife about it when I'm asking her about you —" 

"Oh, I can tell you how. I learned all about this when I was — well, I was basically apprenticed to a witch coming up. She made sure I learned a bit of everything. And sometimes a lot more than a bit." 

Treville frowns and lifts his nose again. 

"What?" 

"I... I feel like..." He growls. "There was something about that statement that made me think of — but I don't know. I don't know." He licks his lips. "You're saying I actually *can* do this." 

"I'm saying that the All-Mother is probably going to go up one side of you and down the other, but *yes* —" 

"You're certain." And that was less a question from Laurent than an order to *be* certain or backtrack at *speed*. 

"I am, sir —" 

"Are you not the sort of man who would wish to give a new and helpful friend comforting news?" 

"I *am*, but not if it would get him and his *brothers* *killed*, sir. I — I take brotherhood seriously. I would help him find another way, if this way wasn't open to him." 

Laurent flares his nostrils — 

Stares *nakedly* into Porthos's eyes — 

Stares for a long *time* — 

"Brother...?" 

"What... what sort of *man* does my son grow into? And — are you also close to Thomas? Do *they* stay close?" 

There is... no reason whatsoever to hold this back. 

"Sir. After you die, and Thomas goes on his holiday to Greece, Athos — still Olivier then — meets a woman. She pretends to be a noblewoman in distress, but it's all a story. A lie. Every word out of her *mouth* is a lie. And Olivier *knows* it. But... he's fascinated with her. She makes him feel things he *hasn't* — and I know you know what I'm talking about, because he told me that he told *both* you and his mum about it —" 

"What..." Laurent narrows his eyes. "What does she do. What *happens*. Do they marry?" 

"They do. And Thomas investigates a little when he comes back and finds out everything Olivier already knew, and talks to him about it, and they decide to just go on *anyway*. And that *would've* been the end of it — except that one day Olivier comes back from hunting and finds 'Anne' standing over Thomas's body with a bloody knife —" 

"*No*!" And Laurent bangs his fist on the huge desk hard enough to make it *shudder* — 

"Brother —" 

"I will not — I will *not* —" 

"He's... broken, sir. The grief tears him apart every day. He had 'Anne' hanged, but not before she could tell one last story — that Thomas had tried to rape her —" 

"*What* —" 

"And that — being a Musketeer makes it worse, in some ways. We see a lot of the worst good people can do, sir. He starts to wonder if he *really* knew his brother, especially since they apparently fought —" 

"Not — oh — *God*," Laurent says, snarling and standing and *pacing* — 

"They fought like wet cats in a sack when they were younger, mate," Treville says, quietly. "He still has no reason to doubt. Thomas *may* be able to get it up for a woman, but she damned well better be able to debate philosophy and ethics all night long *first*." 

Laurent *stops* pacing — 

*Looks* at Treville — 

Treville raises his eyebrows. 

"You... think my son is a buggerer?" 

"I'm reasonably sure both of them could be that way inclined, brother, but... ah. Especially Thomas." 

Laurent blinks rapidly. 

Thoughtfully — 

"And *anyway*, we're going to stop all this from *happening*, because I'm going to get the hiding of my decreasingly-youthful existence from a goddess, and then I'm going to keep *all* of you good and healthy for a nice, long *time*. We'll *protect* those boys," Treville says, and pulls Laurent into a hug. 

Laurent takes it *stiffly*, at first, but then clutches Treville hard and strong for long moments. 

"That's right, brother," Treville says, and licks Laurent's smooth-barbered cheek. "I'm right here." 

"I'm having... distinctly dishonourable thoughts." 

"She murdered my godson. I want to tear her *apart*." And Treville turns enough to see Porthos. "What *did* your Treville say to Olivier — *Athos* — about all of this?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I tried to get him to talk to you about it. He wouldn't. He *couldn't*. He... he only barely managed to tell me and Aramis, and he told us that he'd told you that Thomas had died from an ague. Once, when he was *incredibly* drunk, he told me that he was terrified that you'd loathe him for what had happened but never feel free to *say* that because you would never treat your men cruelly —" 

"*Fuck* — *fuck* —" 

"I never could get him to listen to reason about that. Not... not *yet*. Both Aramis and I were working on it. We knew you were family." 

"'Were' family. Ah, fuck. Ah, fuck, I can't take — Laurent, you have to *let* me —" 

"I will. I will. But the boys and Marie-Angelique *must* be allowed to make their own choices." 

Treville growls —

"There's nothing to say we can't make certain that those choices are as... informed, as possible." 

Treville *stops* growling and *snorts* — 

And Laurent kisses Treville's cheek, then licks it, then pulls back. "Baissier owes Kitos several favours for distracting Reynard from his desire to castrate him for calling *you*... what was it?" 

"An incontinent puppy," Treville says, and scratches in front of his ear. 

"Hmm. I can't imagine where he could've gotten that idea. Well. In any event, he has *two* sets of extra leathers — a very prudent man, usually — and they should fit Porthos quite well." 

"I'll —" 

"Have Kitos ask?" 

"Right you are, sir," Treville says, and sweeps his hat on just to tip it.

Laurent smiles at Treville, and then turns his smile on Porthos. "I can give you but little for all you have given me, Porthos —" 

"Sir —" 

"Wait." 

Porthos looks smart and does just that. 

Laurent nods and moves close. "If there is anything you need that I *can* give you — other than the full purse Treville is appropriating as we speak —" 

"I was taking it as read, brother!" 

"As you should have done," Laurent says, and smiles into Porthos's eyes. "Let me know, Porthos," he says, and cups Porthos's shoulders. "Let *us* be brothers to you." 

Porthos inhales wool and steel and perfume and — "I will, sir. I — thank *you*." 

Laurent smiles warmly then, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he cups the back of Porthos's head — 

He kisses Porthos's cheeks and his *mouth* — 

He's not even a *little* perfunctory about it. 

But, well, neither is his *son* on the rare occasions when *he* does it. 

Maybe these things run in families. 

Laurent steps back — 

Porthos licks his lips — 

Treville dumps Porthos's pathetically *lean* purse into the fat one — 

"Dismissed."

They head out.


	3. Treville has a knack for this, really.

Porthos had looked so dejected by the loss of his dandified leathers that, well...

Treville *may* have been being an arse for most of this ride. 

More of one than usual, even. 

But — 

"You can tell me, you know..." 

"Mm? Tell you what, mate?" 

"How *many* pairs of jeweled slippers you own —" 

"Oh, sod *off* —" 

"I won't tell a *soul*," Treville says, and leads his Éventreur over the rockier ground that's the best possible sign that they're getting close to his lands. And — "I don't know if you've ever been out here —" 

"I haven't —" 

"The ground's just going to get stonier. My father may have won nobility for us, but good lands close to Paris were another thing entirely." 

"*Got* it. And he *wanted* lands close to Paris." 

"Well, he knew they were going to keep him — and his regiment — holed up near the city for the foreseeable future," Treville says. "He didn't want to set up camp way the hell out in the countryside for no *reason*." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully for that — and smiles at something in his mind. 

Treville — wants to know. "Mm?" 

"Your older self, mate. He told me — in my initial interview — about how your dad came up through the ranks, how he was just a regular soldier like anyone else, hating the Brits and the Spanish and the gentry and the priests, but how Henri raised him up anyway. And your older self told me how he'd raised *you* to be just like him, really — a soldier to the *end* — even though he also had to raise you to know how to, you know, navigate *through* all those noble arseholes. It made me... feel really comfortable with you," Porthos says, and smiles again. 

"Let me get this straight. He told you about *that* — and you still didn't realize he *liked* you?" 

"It was the first time we'd met!" 

"Yes, and —" 

"I thought he was just *trying* to make me comfortable, you know, like a good Captain —" 

Treville snickers. 

"Oi, *what*." 

"Was he looking deep into your eyes?" 

"Well, yeah. The whole time. Kind of — pinning me in place, like." 

"Was he using your name a lot?" 

"Yeah, and I really appreciated that. Made me feel —" 

"Special...?" 

Porthos frowns and *looks* at him — 

Treville lolls his tongue. 

"You *arse* —" 

"I'm only saying, Porthos. When we get you *back* there, you should give the poor man a *try*. 

"Oh my *God* —" 

"He's *lonely*. *Grief*-stricken —" 

"You're the worst creature on the *planet* —" 

"He would *dearly* love to shove his tongue *right* up your jiggly arse —"

"How the bloody hell do *you* know it's — were you looking at my arse while I was *changing*?" 

Treville pulls on an innocent expression —

Badly — 

Absolutely horribly, really — 

Porthos coughs a laugh. "For fuck's sake. Are your brothers as awful as you? Kitos and Reynard, I mean." 

Treville grins. "Mostly not. Mostly." 

"And *that* means?" 

Treville leads them down a turn-off that, truly, is even stonier than the main road — 

He checks to see how Porthos's rented black Brilleur — and Treville will never understand why people think *his* names for horses are strange — is handling the terrain — 

"He's good, mate. The Captain's coin — and I *know* it was his, you don't have to tell me — pays for a *lot*." 

Treville sighs. "Laurent puts a lot of damned money into the regiment, all right. The Queen-Regent's purse strings are closed tighter than a cleric's *mind*. I have no *idea* what the regiment's going to do when it's *my* turn." 

Porthos grunts. "We do all right, mate. The men scrimp and save and do some uh... *questionable* things to make up the shortfalls in their pay, but the honour doesn't go *anywhere*." 

Treville blinks. "Questionable things...?" 

Porthos waggles his eyebrows. "I made my money sharping — dice and cards — when I was coming up. I haven't *precisely* stopped, as opposed to slowing down —" 

"Right, so no games with *you* —" 

Porthos laughs hard, patting and stroking his Brilleur to keep him calm. "And there are other things, too."

"Like what?" 

Porthos gives him a look — 

A long and measuring — 

But, before Treville can say anything, Porthos nods. "Some of the men — like me and Aramis — occasionally find ourselves patrons. Fine ladies who love the dash and *flash* of a Musketeer... if you follow my meaning." 

Treville blinks and blinks — 

"You and your mates have never done that." 

"No, I... I mean, Reynard's ladies *shower* him with gifts in the hopes that he'll stick around a little longer, but —" 

"He doesn't do it *for* the coin, I hear you." 

Treville wags his head a little. "He has a clutch of bastards. He's broke all the time because he takes care of them as best as he can. Sometimes he'll stay with one of his fine ladies — one with a lot better pedigree than I'll *ever* have — for long enough to make the coin to do a little better by them. I think that counts?" 

Porthos wags his head, too, frowning a little judiciously. "Yeah, I think so, too. Though — not the best way to avoid making *more* bastards." 

Treville snickers. "Sometimes I think my Reynard could *happily* spend his life with his nose up a succession of skirts — he tends to be a little more cautious with his *spend* these days — and his arse stuffed with my cock. Or Laurent's cock. Or *Kitos's* cock." Treville looks at him critically. "Maybe yours —" 

"*Oi* —" 

"He didn't try to castrate you when you were making a move on him, mate. That's a really positive sign with him." 

Porthos splutters. "I was *playing*. And I was going to say — *I* think your Reynard would get a little *frustrated* if he didn't have regular opportunities to wreak havoc on the world." 

Treville sighs. "You know him already. Or — does *Olivier* grow into a man like that? He couldn't possibly —" 

"He doesn't, no. Aramis, though..." Porthos sighs. 

"That is a *fascinating* name for a soldier." 

"Yeah, I blinked a few times when he said it. Though mostly I was blinking because I couldn't *fucking* believe how bloody gorgeous he was." And Porthos shakes his head. 

Treville grins. "Tell me *all* about it." 

Porthos snickers. "You're kind of insatiable, aren't you." 

"I'm a *dog*." 

"Right, right, *got* it. I uh..." And Porthos gives him a look from under those long lashes. 

Treville raises his eyebrows. "What is it? What's wrong?" 

"It doesn't bother you that we whore ourselves?"

"Why would it? Some of the most brilliant, fascinating, diverting, *worthwhile* people I know are whores for a *living*." 

"It's uh. What *I* did for a living while I was learning how to sharp well." 

Treville grins *filthily*. "You must have been incredible as a boy. Not that you aren't incredible now —" 

"Treville. Are we..." And Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Because... right. Right. 

He's just been treating Porthos the way he'd treat his *brothers*, or Marie-Angelique, or — 

But he isn't thinking of her. 

He isn't. 

He's been acting like Porthos is part of his *pack*, like he *wants* to be, and everyone *else* will want him to be — 

Well, they do, or they *will* — 

He's *good* at this — 

"Is that a hard question, mate...?" 

"I... I've been treating you like... pack." 

"Like —" And Porthos blinks. And then nods. "I appreciate that —" 

"Don't appreciate it. Don't — be flattered or anything like that. Just — do you want it? Do you... maybe need time to think?" And Treville frowns — 

And Porthos grins at him, broad and bright and — magnificent, really. 

Treville licks his *lips* — 

"Let's uh. I *don't* want to get you in hot water with the *rest* of your pack —" 

"They all love you, or will love you — I'm *good* at picking people for this pack —" 

"I —" 

"And you're already attracted to all of them you've met — I could *smell* it — and I can't *imagine* you not being attracted to Marie-Angelique —" 

"Who — Laurent's *wife*? Athos's *mother*?" 

"Right, that's a wrinkle, but she's gorgeous. She's — she's *fat*." 

"Oh." 

"She's blonde — she has these curls — and she likes it *incredibly* rough —" 

"Shit —" 

"*Yes*." 

"What, like — everywhere?" 

"*Yes*. She's — she's covered in bruises and bite-marks and everything else all the bloody time. It's *amazing*." 

"Oh my God —" 

"And this is — I mean, she's also ridiculously brilliant — she's smarter than all of us put together —" 

"Well, I mean. How hard is that?" 

"You can just lick Brilleur's bollocks if you're going to be like that —" 

Porthos laughs — 

Laughs like — 

And Treville licks his lips and drinks it in. 

He will never be able to resist *anyone* with a good laugh. Or a lot of them. 

Porthos's Treville has to be tossing himself off *brutally* in that little box of an office every time Porthos *leaves* it — 

But — 

"Mate? What's wrong?" 

— he's taking too long. Staring too much. Treville licks his lips again. "I like a man — or a woman, or a boy — who knows how to laugh." 

Porthos licks *his* lips. "Do you, now." 

"Yes." 

"*How* do you like them?" 

"Under me. Mostly." 

Porthos flares his nostrils. "That's — fuck." And he laughs and turns *away* — 

"No?" 

"No, I — uh. I haven't had much of *that* since I *was* a boy."

Treville growls — keeping it quiet so as not to annoy Éventreur too much. "That's a shame." 

Porthos takes a quick breath. "You like it both ways." 

"I like it — many, many different ways. I'm a dog, but I'm also an extremely hungry man. We can — whatever you want." 

"Treville..." 

"Don't think of me as your Captain. Don't —" And Treville laughs. "Unless it helps. Would you like to play that game?" 

Porthos splutters again, patting and soothing Brilleur. "*Arse*." 

"Was that a..." 

"I uh — I've been thinking about what you said. Going back and putting the moves on my Treville, and all." 

"Oh. Yes?" 

"I could *probably* use some pointers," Porthos says, and strokes his soft-looking beard. 

"Pointers — just tell him you want his cock in you! Work up a little slick in your breeches first, he can't resist that —" 

Porthos bites the tip of his tongue — for a moment. "You can tell me how you like it —" 

"I —" 

"You can *show* me how you like it, mate. Show me *exactly* how you like it." 

Treville *grunts* — 

Lifts his nose — 

Porthos smells like amusement and lust and *slick* — 

Like happiness and shock and *excitement* — 

Like — 

"You can tell me what you're looking for, Treville..." 

"Everything. Everything *about* you," Treville says, and his voice isn't human, isn't — 

He has to *watch* that — 

He can't bloody scare Porthos *away* — he swallows his growl and turns away, breathes *shallowly* — 

"Hey, what's that —" 

"Give — give me just —" 

"I *could* give you a minute to get your control back... or you could tell me what it was I just did that got you *that* hot so I can do it all the time —" 

Fuck — "I — sometimes I... I won't hurt you," Treville says, and looks to Porthos again. 

Porthos *blinks* — and nods slowly. "You're bloody strong, all right." 

"I — shifters always are —" 

"And I'm maybe bringing your dog out a little?" 

"Not — the literal dog," Treville says, and then laughs ruefully. "The *other* literal dog. I — I was augmented. The dog I shift into and I aren't *quite* the same person." 

Another thoughtful nod. "I'd like to meet your dog —" 

Treville laughs nervously. "Don't say that when I'm this hard. Please." 

Porthos coughs and *snickers* — "*Right* — uh. Have you done that? With — humans?" 

Treville grins. "With Reynard and Marie-Angelique. They like it... fairly often. The dog doesn't bite them, though. He wants to, I want to —" Treville shakes his head. "They all wanted to protect me from losing my vitality if I bound them. Are you *sure* —" 

"I am. I *promise* I am." 

"That would explain why the dog has always been so *confused* by the prohibition against biting. He knows a lot more about the All-Mother than I do." 

"Well. Makes sense, yeah?" 

"Yes, and — and I didn't mean to change the subject —" 

"It's all right —" 

"No, it bloody *isn't*," Treville says, and laughs — 

And Porthos laughs with him. 

"Come on, we can stop here, tie our horses up —" 

"And fuck in the *woods*?" 

"I've... got a blanket?" 

Porthos snickers hard. "I'm not *averse* —" 

"*Good* —" 

"I'm just thinking — we're going to meet another earth-mage —" 

"Oh, shit — she'll smell *everything* —" 

Porthos reaches over and claps him on the shoulder. "Steady on, mate. We'll find a nice patch of stony ground to roll around on *after* she gives us advice." 

"Do you..." And Treville studies Porthos for long moments. 

"Mm?" 

"Do you *like* bending for your lovers?" 

"I'll be honest — I've never really had *quality* lovemaking that way with a man." 

"Oh." 

"But uh..." And Porthos grins at him. "I'm willing to try, with you." 

"You've *wanted* it." 

"Yeah. I have." 

"Needed it?" 

Porthos inhales sharply. "I don't know about that. I haven't... thought —" 

"Don't lie to me. Please." 

"Shit — that was an order *thinly* disguised as a request." 

"Did it bother you?" 

Another long look. "No." 

Treville licks his lips. "Then... tell me if you've needed it. If you've needed a man to... put you on your knees." 

"Fuck —" 

"To hold you down." 

"Treville —" 

"To make you take... everything he wanted to *give* you." 

"I haven't even —" Porthos growls and shakes his head. "The fantasies were too incredible. Too *much*. Too — bloody *look* at me, mate. I go up to a bloke, *gently* float an offer past him, try not to get either of us hanged or what-have-you, and, assuming he's even *interested*? The *first* thing he does is offer — *fervently* — to suck my *cock*. Even if he's been lording it over the whole bloody tavern not five minutes before!" 

"I..."

"Is this really a *shock*? Does *Kitos* never want to get *his* ashes hauled?" 

"He *does*. We climb him like the tree he *is* —" 

"*Good*, but — you *have* to know he wasn't getting that *before* you all got together. You *have* to."

Treville winces. "I do. He's — told us some." 

"Yeah?" 

Treville winces harder. "Did you ever try to... redirect the men you picked up?" 

"Redirect —" Porthos snorts. "Of bloody *course* I did. And the looks I'd get would just —" Porthos shakes his head. "I gave up, all right? I gave *up*. You're big like me, you're strong like me, you're a bloody *Musketeer* *and* a man of colour? You're not getting any of that." 

"You are from me," Treville says quietly. 

"Yeah, eh? You got a little fixation for taking big men down a peg or two?"

"Not that. Not that. I just —" Treville smiles ruefully. "I'm a dog, Porthos. *More* than I am most other things. I um. I really *like* to mount." 

Porthos blinks. 

Treville winces and shrugs. "*I* need it. And the man in me... knows exactly how to play along. How to *push* things along to make things *easier* for the dog in me. So that *all* of me... gets fed." 

Porthos frowns. "What happens when the man in you wants to bloody bend *over*?" 

"Well, the dog has very specific opinions about who I'm *allowed* to do that with —" 

"Uh." 

"— but it's all right, because I agree with him." 

"So — Laurent. Who else?" 

You. "My pack. Anyone in my pack who wants to, really —" 

"Including the ones you shove right down to their knees?" 

"Pack is pack. You just..." Treville licks his lips. "Some things would be more — more *playful* than other things, less serious, but — it's not like I lord it over everyone, or — well, you saw how Laurent was with me." 

"I did, yeah, you're right. Sorry about that." 

"No, it's all right, it's a lot to take in —" 

"I *know*; I've *seen* it —" 

Treville splutters — 

And Porthos *winks*, but — 

But — "I — you saw the glamoured version. What it *used* to look like." 

"What — oh — shit. Shifter, right. You have a bloody *mark*. You — have a knot." And Porthos blinks and blinks —

Licks his *lips* — 

"I've never... I mean... is your cock *smaller* now?" 

"Fuck, no!" 

"I was just asking! Even huge dogs have smaller cocks than men do —" 

"The dog has a smaller cock." 

"Right, right —" 

"Not that *much* smaller —" 

"All right!" 

Treville snickers. "What the hell kind of question *was* that?" 

"I —" Porthos snickers, too. "It just slipped *out*." 

"That wouldn't happen if *your* cock was big enough —" 

"*Oi* —" 

Treville lets his tongue loll. There. 

"We are going to be out in your bloody woods —"

"I almost never hunt them —" 

"Spending more time *measuring* our cocks than *doing* anything with them —" 

"Say." 

"Mm?" 

"What do you *like* when you bend?" 

"I — uh. I don't know." 

"Did you want to be... led? A little?" 

"Is that a *hopeful* tone in your voice?" 

"It truly is —" 

"Then tell me what *you* want." 

To make you so wild you don't want to leave — *shit* — "Uh." 

"Treville?" 

"Um. Give me —" 

"A *minute*? What just happened to you?" 

Treville smiles ruefully and nods toward the stables, where Ife's great-grand-nephews are rushing out towards them, full of smiles and laughter. 

"Right, we can't talk freely anymore, but —" 

"We'll uh. We'll revisit that," Treville says, and smiles even more ruefully. 

They halt their horses well away from the stables, because the boys are right *there*, and dismount. 

Treville introduces Porthos — 

Porthos introduces Brilleur — 

Olamide and Morayo, the younger boys, *immediately* get into an argument with Olakunle over who will get to care for him — 

Treville looms over the cluster of fussing boys a bit. "Éventreur's getting jealous, you know." 

"Oh —" 

"Oh, no —" 

"*I* will take care of him," Olakunle, the eldest, declares, and expertly takes Éventreur's reins and starts leading him into the stables.

Éventreur *never* tries to bite or trample any of *them*. 

And — 

Porthos is watching the boys with the horses closely as they take them away. 

Treville can't quite tell what he's looking for, since he *doesn't* seem to doubt their ability to care for the horses. "Porthos?" 

"Those boys... who are they to you?" 

Treville grins. "Ife's great grand-nephews. Some of her family — the ones who obey her most smartly — live here with her, though not in *her* house." 

Porthos nods slowly. "Ife — she was a teacher to you." 

Dangerous ground. Dangerous, terrible — no. He'll just say it, and have done. "She *is* a teacher to me, Porthos. And she — and her late sisters Lara and Layo — were the guardians of... my other sister. My lover. My wife," Treville says, and looks down — 

No. 

He leads them toward Ife's house. 

He walks. 

He walks *quickly* — 

"Shit — Treville —" 

"I don't — I don't talk about this —" 

"I can *feel* that you lost her — I'm sorry, and words like that are *shite* —" 

Treville bares his *teeth* — "There was — we had a son. She never gave him a name before she was gone, and I — I. I'm sorry. I still can't —" 

"Can you tell me... how long?"

"Fourteen years. Fourteen — it's — it's complicated — there was a lot of dark magic involved — I murdered people — *after* torturing them — " 

"Right, I won't —" 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't talk about it." 

"It's all *right* —" 

"It *isn't*. I should be able to — with you —" 

"We just bloody *met* — " 

"That's not what everything in me — cares about," Treville says, and breathes. And looks up. And looks *at* Porthos, who is blinking again. "I'd tell you about my father any day. About my mother. About — about anything. My loves. My *pack*." 

"Your — heart." 

Treville nods. Once. 

Porthos licks his lips and nods back. "So um. I'm in love with Athos. And Aramis." 

"You're in love with —" Treville grins helplessly, and ignores the tears rolling down his cheeks. They won't be the last. "Oh, Olivier is such a wonderful *boy*." 

"He's a wonderful man, too. Really — witty and loving and wry and smart and generous and — everything good. He's too *close*-mouthed, but, well, Aramis and I *understand* that. And — fuck, he's so bloody *gorgeous* —" 

Treville sighs. "So much like his father." 

"Yeah, I can see that, though he doesn't get the height, really." 

"No?" 

"Nah. Or — well, not all of it." Porthos gestures. 

Treville nods. "Still just about as tall as *me*, so we'll call it respectable —" 

Porthos snorts — 

And Treville smiles at him. "Does he wear his beard like his father does?" 

"No, it's um. Well, it's a bit *woolly* —" 

"Like... no, you tell me." 

"He wears it in a bit of a sprawl, you know, all over his face," Porthos says, and gestures again. 

"You're joking." 

Porthos laughs. "I'm not. I've been dying to nuzzle him for *ages*. Or just grind his face in somewhere —" 

Treville *coughs* — 

"Uh. Too much?" 

"No, I —" 

"Are you *sure*? Because you're his bloody *godfather* —" 

"All right, maybe —" 

"— and it would be *natural* for you to need me to talk about *Aramis* —" 

"Just tell me *why* his beard is so — so..." And Treville frowns. "You have to understand, mate, his rooms in the de la Fère properties are *pristine*. The only times he's mussed are when he's *training*. And then not for *long*." 

"Right, and the same is *basically* true in my own time —" 

"But the *beard* — " 

"I think — *maybe* — he changed the way he wore it when he got that scar." 

"*What* scar?" 

Porthos *blinks* — "But — he's not seventeen, yet, right, got it." He shakes himself a little — 

Treville *shamelessly* adjusts himself —

Porthos snorts and cuffs him — 

And they're grinning at each other — 

Smiling and just — 

Wait, no — "Tell me —" 

"Right, yeah. When he goes for his three seasons of training as a Musketeer 'recruit' — only *not*, because Laurent hadn't let up on him enough to let him enlist for real — wait." And Porthos frowns. 

"What? What is it?" 

"*You're* the Captain by the time Athos is training." 

"Laurent *retires*?" 

"Yeah. I have no idea why. *Definitely* bite him." 

"Fuck, I want to get back on the road to Paris right *now* —" 

"I bloody *know*. Anyway, he told me you mostly stayed away from him, to avoid showing favoritism and all that, since everyone knew he was your godson. But *one* day you were actually watching him fence, and he was showing off..." 

"He got hurt. He —" Treville winces. "He *never* shows off. He's not that kind of *boy*." 

"Maybe not when you're right there on top of him, but..." 

"If I'd been... leaving him alone... ah, shit. *Shit*. *Where* on his face is the scar?" 

"Upper lip." 

"*Shit* —" 

"It's hot as *fire* —" 

"I — not too big?" 

"Well, it's pretty obvious —" 

"Oh, my poor *boy* — is he — does he — how much does it *bother* him?" 

"I —" Porthos winces. "I was *going* to say it didn't, but the way he talked about it... it was..." He shakes his head once. "He said that there was this big *difference* in how 'Anne' looked at his scar from how the noblewomen he'd been introduced to and expected to marry looked at it. He said that *no* woman looked at his scar the way that murdering creature did, and, well, I don't know that. I don't *know*. But I *do* know women — and girls, and boys, and *men* — still throw themselves at him all the bloody time." 

"As they *should*. Does he... not see it?" 

Porthos gives him a *look* for that — and then nods. "He misses a lot of it, all right. Not *all* of it, and sometimes he's being *willfully* blind, but... yeah. And, of course, losing Thomas that way just messed him up even worse." 

"Hence him refusing you." 

"Or he might just not *like* great big men of colour, mate." 

"Everyone with sense does."

Porthos snickers and cuffs him again — 

Treville cuffs him *back* —

Porthos knocks his *hat* askew — 

"*Hey* —" 

Porthos snickers *harder* —

"I'd knock you right into this terrifying garden if Ife wouldn't —" 

"I will beat you with a *spoon*!" 

"— beat me with a spoon," Treville says, and sweeps his hat off — 

And Porthos moves to sweep *his* hat off — forgetting that he'd lost it with the dandified leathers — and then just bows. 

"Get *up* here!" 

"Right you are, Ife," Treville says, and touches Porthos's arm. "It's good to see you, too —" 

"Shut it!" 

Porthos is *staring* a bit, but still walking, and that's a *good* sign. 

And, once they're in the foyer — Ife's lit *all* the candles — she *grips* Porthos by the jaw and bends him down to look into his eyes. 

"Uh — hello?" 

"There is something *wrong* about this boy!" 

"He's in the wrong time —" 

"Other than that!" 

Porthos and Treville blink *together* — 

Ife *growls* — 

Her *nation* of familiars growls and chatters and snaps with her — 

And Porthos goes loose and calm, just the way he should. 

Ife nods. "You have good training, boy." 

"Thank you. I was raised by witches —" 

"*Where*." 

"In the Court of Miracles. And I'm Porthos —" 

"Porthos. Porthos..."

And that's not a *massive* shock, just going by the accent Porthos has obviously worked hard to modulate, but — 

The words still hurt.

Still — burn. 

And burn Ife, too, judging by the hurt on that iron face. 

"Is that — what's wrong? Can I help?" 

"No, boy, you cannot," Ife says, and releases him, smoothing her wrap-dress unnecessarily and turning to Treville. "Where did you find him?"

"He found *me* at the garrison. He was on his way there in his own time when the world changed around him and he found himself — here." 

Ife nods slowly. "Then it's the garrison — or you, or *possibly* your pack — that is the key." 

"I — yes?" 

"Yes. The energies around Porthos are jagged, *reaching* things. *Incomplete*," she says, and she's speaking to both of them now. "Boy, what have you been *drawn* to since you arrived here? What has made you feel *calm* and *comforted*, despite your condition?" 

"Uh, well. Mostly Treville. And... his pack," Porthos says, and blinks more. "Are you saying I need to... no, what are you saying?"

She frowns at Porthos like he's a disappointing student, and Porthos winces, but Treville knows that frown, after so many years of *mutual* disappointment — and horror. 

"She isn't certain, Porthos." 

"Oh. No?" 

Ife shakes her head once. "The *best* advice I can give you is to stay *close* to that one and his pack — as close as you can! And do not lie and strut and exaggerate like a fooling young *boy*," she says, and thumps his chest — 

Porthos grunts — "I won't! I *don't* —" 

"Be honest. Be *open*. Make *that* one do the same, and also the wild one. The others will be honest as a matter of course. You will find the answers together — or you will not, at all." 

Porthos winces *hard* — 

And Treville shudders. He — 

He hasn't had a responsibility *like* this in fourteen years. 

He didn't do all that well that time. He — no. 

No. 

He won't fuck this up. 

He *won't*. 

He pulls Porthos into his arms and squeezes him tight. "We'll get you home. We *will*." 

Porthos squeezes him back — and shudders. "I trust you, mate." 

Maybe he grows into a better man.


	4. Well, you know, so long as he's *familiar*. As it were.

Kitos watches Fearless ride up to the hostler's closest to the garrison with that Porthos fellow, and — wonders. 

Or.

No, that's not true, at all. 

Reynard is — maybe — wondering. 

What *Kitos* is doing is wondering exactly how this is all going to work *when* Fearless fucks the man, because he will. 

He just doesn't *smile* like that — warm *and* happy *and* proud *and* proprietary — for people — 

Well, all right. 

It won't be *fucking*, at all. 

It'll be *lovemaking* — assuming Porthos is up for that sort of thing, and he *does* seem like a good enough bloke, but — 

"Notre meneur moves fast, when he wishes to," Reynard says, standing perfectly at attention and barely moving his lips. 

So, Reynard isn't wondering, either. "Don't stab anyone, *yet*, fox-face." 

"Non, non," Reynard says, and his voice is quiet. "I have watched. I have paid *attention*." 

Kitos blinks. "To?" 

"Not to how he was with *me* — how could I? I was busy falling in love and *lying* about it. But... with Amina. And with *all* of us once he and Amina were bound." 

And that had been...

Reynard's smile is small — but not even a little bit quiet on his face. "Notre meneur waved his hand. We blinked. And then, suddenly, we were all in the same bed. Oui?" 

Kitos laughs. "I think he worked a *little* harder than that, fox-face." 

"Are you so certain...?" 

Kitos laughs *harder*. "*No*." 

"C'est ça," Reynard says, and tracks Fearless and Porthos with his eyes. "I watched him. I *saw* him. I *knew* him. And it is the same." 

Kitos sighs. "That it is." 

"Are *you* well with this, verrat?" 

"I'm only fretting like an old woman over here." 

"You're worried about notre meneur's taste? At *this* late date?" 

"I *shouldn't*. He's bloody good at this! But this time there's magic involved. It could mess him up, somehow." 

Reynard nods thoughtfully. "We will watch." 

"That we will." 

And then Fearless and Porthos are walking up to join them, smiling and laughing like arseholes — 

Cuffing each other like they've been friends — *brothers* — for *years* — 

And Porthos turns to take both of *them* in with that unbelievably sunny smile of his —

And Fearless jerks his chin at him. "Are you berks still on punishment? Did you actually *kill* someone or something?" 

Oh, that. Kitos and Reynard share a rueful look — 

"Oh, just bloody *tell* us!" 

'Us'. And that is really *everything* Fearless needed to say — especially since he still has one hand up on Porthos's shoulder. 

Porthos, for his part, is studying them to see how they took that. Which is — 

Well, he definitely hadn't seemed like a *slow* bloke. 

In the *least*. 

Reynard smiles ruefully at Porthos — and nods to him. 

Kitos smiles ruefully and tips his hat. 

Porthos offers his own rueful smile and reaches for the hat he's not *wearing* — 

Rubs a hand back over the oddly-familiar-looking scarf on his head — and twisted down his back a little ways — 

And gives the little half-bow, nice and neat.

Fearless *looks* at them — 

At *all* of them — 

And *then* very, very obviously realizes what he'd said. 

He licks his lips. 

He *blushes* — 

"Right, first, let me — we have to all stick together. Ife says there's something wrong about the magic surrounding Porthos, that it's *incomplete* somehow. She said that whatever he was strongly drawn to — either the garrison, me, or our pack — was the key to figuring out how to get him back home, and, well —" 

"It is you, meneur?" And Reynard raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos smiles ruefully again. "It's all of you, actually. I thought about it, and... it actually didn't feel quite... right when we got too far away from all of you." 

Reynard blinks — 

Which is fine, because Kitos is doing the exact same thing. "All of us?" 

"Yeah, mate. I'm not... used to this. I was raised with witches, I've had plenty of rituals done on and near me, but this is... uh. Closer? Than what I'm used to. I don't *like* the idea of *magic* picking my *mates*. Especially since I'd pick all of you *anyway*." 

And that — 

Reynard inhales sharply, checks his weapons reflexively, and moves out of position so that he can cup Porthos's face and kiss his cheeks and mouth — 

"Oh — hey —" 

"I can see why notre meneur wishes to fuck you —" 

Porthos and Fearless cough together — 

"So you *did* talk about this...?" 

"Uh — yeah —" 

"And you were going to tell us this when?" 

"*Now*," Fearless says. "Or — when *are* you berks off-duty?" 

"As soon as you got back from seeing Ife," Kitos says, and laughs hard, gently tugging Reynard back by the ponytail. 

"*Verrat* —" 

"Go tell Laurent the news, and then let's go get *drunk*." 

"Right you are. But you're still going to tell me who the bloody hell you murdered last night." 

"And — maybe if that's a usual thing?" And Porthos grins at Reynard — 

Looks him up and down — 

Licks his *lips* — 

Reynard *immediately* stops trying to get to Fearless and narrows his eyes hotly *and* warmly at Porthos. "What if notre *verrat* did the killing, mm? What if I was only... an innocent bystander?" 

Porthos laughs — smart man — and then gives *Kitos* the grin — 

The *hot* look — 

"My brother Aramis taught me to *enjoy* exciting nights out, Kitos. Just, you know. To put that *out* there." 

Kitos... stares. 

Reynard snickers like a *boy* — 

And Fearless scruffs Porthos *again* and hauls him into the garrison. 

Kitos keeps staring. 

At nothing. 

Reynard keeps *snickering* — 

Kitos *frowns* — 

"Oh, non, non, verrat —" 

"Did he just..." 

"He is *like* notre meneur!" 

"*Fuck*." 

"A little too polite, trop gentil, mais —" 

"We're all going to die." 

"But we will fuck like *animals* first," Reynard says, and nods judiciously.


	5. A somewhat truncated night out.

"Bloody *Queensguard*?" 

Porthos checks — judging by the way Kitos and Reynard are wincing over there, across their dark, shadowy little table, that's exactly as bad as it sounds. 

Possibly worse, since it *sounds* bloody horrible. 

He checks on Treville — 

He actually looks a little *pale*, which — 

"Right, so — these would be the people who carted your doggy arse off to gaol?"

Treville growls and immediately gets his colour back — 

But Reynard jumps in first — "*Oui*, Porthos. They are the Queen-Regent's hand-picked *salauds*." And he spits on the floor — 

And pulls a *blade* —

And Kitos grips Reynard's shoulder. "They're pretty awful. Bullies and arseholes of the *lowest* order. They usually stick to the palaces, but sometimes she sends them out on *errands*." 

"And sometimes they get done with those errands *early* —" Treville growls again. "Who *saw* you?" 

"Just the whores we were saving from getting the hell beaten out of them — for the crime of asking to be *paid*, you understand," Kitos says, and lowers his chin just a little. 

It manages to make him look more terrifying than *anything* else he's said or done since Porthos had first locked eyes on him. And — yeah. "There was no choice there," Porthos says. 

Treville shows his teeth. "None." 

Reynard and Kitos nod once — 

"Wait," Treville says. 

Reynard and Kitos wince again. 

"*What* did you do with the bodies." 

"Well..." 

"Ah, well, meneur..." 

Treville takes his hat off and smacks both Kitos and Reynard with it. "*That's* why Laurent punished you." 

"Meneur —" 

"Aye, I know it," Kitos says. 

"Verrat —" 

"The Queen-Regent's not going to be happy about two of her pets washing up on the banks of the Seine not even *remotely* fit for Christian burial, fox-face, and you know it." 

Reynard snarls. "They deserved this!" 

"No one's *arguing* that, Reynard," Treville says, but — he shakes his head and winces. 

Porthos leans in. "Before Louis has her banished, she winds up taking out a lot of her uh... *frustrations*, on a lot of people who absolutely *didn't* deserve it."

Kitos shakes Reynard a little. "And we already know she's *like* that." 

Reynard hisses between his teeth and puts up his blade. 

Treville nods. "*Thank* you, Reynard. And thank both of you for ridding the earth of two fucking *stains*," he says, and toasts Kitos and Reynard with his wine. 

Porthos raises his tumbler and nods —

Kitos and Reynard raise theirs — 

They drink — 

Reynard finishes off the bottle pouring them all *more* — 

Kitos calls for another — 

And Treville tilts his chair back on two legs and drinks exactly like a man who means to spend at least some of the evening drunk off his arse. 

Reynard does the *exact* same thing — only *he* catches Porthos looking and gives him a *hot* smile. 

"Right, am I going to have to get jealous over here?" And Treville's reaching for the neck of Porthos's leathers again — 

Porthos *snorts* — 

And Kitos *booms* a laugh. "Do it, Fearless! Watching you get possessive is the highlight of my days!" 

"Fine. Porthos, make a move on Kitos." 

"Are you going to bloody *scruff* me again if I do?" 

"Yes, I am, but that shouldn't stop you." 

Porthos snickers and cuffs Treville — 

Treville lolls his tongue — but only for a moment. The maid — Suzanne — is there with their next bottle, and they all behave themselves long enough to smile and flirt and commiserate with her about the rowdy custom. 

Which, for the most part, *isn't* them. 

Yet. 

"Right, lads, we can't let this bottle go to waste!" Kitos says, and knocks back his wine — 

"Ah, oui, oui, it would be a terrible shame," Reynard says, and knocks back *his* — 

Treville is *already* pouring — 

And Porthos is the slow one. *Right*. 

It's going to be that kind of night. He shakes his head and smiles — 

And drinks off *his* wine — 

Treville pours more for him — "What were you just thinking?" 

Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it because he realizes he's about to say something about how much of a drinker *Athos* is. "Uh..." 

"None of that," Kitos says, and beetles his brows at Porthos. "We're to be *honest* with each other." 

Reynard frowns mock-judiciously and nods. 

Treville — studies him. *He* knows what Porthos shutting up quick could mean. But — 

They *are* supposed to be honest. Porthos takes a drink of his fresh wine, smiles ruefully, and says, "I was thinking that drinking like this wasn't exactly *unfamiliar* —" 

"Well, I'd bloody hope not, mate. You're putting some terrifying thoughts in my head about the future of the regiment," Kitos says, and booms laughter — 

"Ah, oui, and the clothes were bad *enough* —" 

"I *like* my — look —" 

"What about the drinking made you get serious, Porthos," Treville says, and rests his hand on the back of Porthos's chair — 

"*You* are too serious tonight, meneur —" 

"Wait, Reynard. Just a moment," Treville says, and looks at *him*. "There's something you don't want us to know here. Something you don't want us to think about." 

"Only 'cause I want you all to have a good time," Porthos says, and pushes a hand back over his scarf. "Right, here it is. I mostly drink like this with Athos." 

"With —" 

"Olivier *drinks*?" 

"Notre petit *soldat*? He is — mais — non, non —" 

"Yeah, he — well, we told you about what happens to him with that wife of his —" 

"She was not a *wife*," Reynard says, and growls — 

"It breaks him," Kitos says, in a low, hurt voice. "It... changes him all round. Oh, our little *lad*..."

Treville bares his teeth. "No Laurent, no Marie-Angelique, no *Thomas* — and fuck only knows what *I'm* doing as the *Captain*." 

"Dressing him down for his drunkenness, mostly, Treville," Porthos says. "But always in private." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Merde. It affects his *work*?" 

"Not often. He's the best man we've got at *everything* but the guns and the hand-to-hand, and even when he slips up, he's *still* the sodding best. But..." Porthos shrugs and turns to Treville. "You know him. You know exactly what he can *do*." 

"And I know when he's —" Treville growls — and then croons. "My poor boy..." 

"You'll fix it, mate," Porthos says. "You'll *fix* it." 

Treville croons again and looks *lost*. "I just — I don't —" 

Kitos clears his throat like a musket-crack. "We'll all bloody fix it!"

"He will not go *through* these things," Reynard says, and slams his tumbler down. 

And then Treville flares his nostrils, sits straight, drinks off his wine, and growls. "We'll all bloody fix it. He won't — our boys won't *suffer*." 

"There you go, Fearless, now drink more —" 

"No, no more drinking," Treville says, and immediately tops off their tumblers. "After we finish this bottle, anyway —" 

"Merde, meneur, do not *frighten* me —" 

Kitos laughs hard — 

Porthos drinks more so he can be topped *off* faster — "Mm, what are we doing other than drinking, mate?" 

"Something that will *not* remind you of our Olivier." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows and looks at all of them — 

And then Reynard blows him a *kiss* — 

And Kitos laughs *harder* — "*Which* brothel are we haunting tonight? Does our Porthos like the ladies, at all?" 

"Oh my God." 

Treville sticks his tongue out — but doesn't loll it. "He was *quite* taken by my description of Marie-Angelique —" 

"You always talk about her *fat* first, meneur, I do not know why she does not *slap* you —" 

Porthos snickers. "Hey, now, some women *like* being fat." 

"Very true!" Kitos says. "But how many of them want that to be the *first* thing out of your gob?" 

"I —" 

"Literally *every* time you describe her, meneur!" 

Porthos splutters. "*Every* time?" 

"Her fat arms, her fat thighs, her fat *breasts* —" 

"Fox-face, you know he's *mostly* talking about her fat arse." 

"Ah, oui. This is true. He leaves nearly as many fingertip bruises there as our Laurent." 

"That's because I have bloody good *taste*!" 

Porthos *wheezes* — 

"Hey — she might think I didn't *like* her body if I suddenly started talking about... about..." 

"Her *mind*, meneur?" 

"Her *personality*?" And Kitos thunders laughter — 

"To be fair, he *did* say she was smarter than all of you." 

"Fearless! I'm proud of you!" 

Treville salutes Kitos — vehemently — 

"He didn't say a damned *thing* about her personality, though," Porthos says, and sticks his own tongue out — 

Kitos *and* Reynard laugh hard — 

"We had other things *to* talk about!" 

"Like *Porthos's* arse, meneur...?" 

Porthos snickers. "My *jiggly* arse. He made sure to look while I was changing." 

"Oh, mate," Kitos says, and shakes his head. "He was looking before then, too." 

Reynard nods judiciously. 

"*Fine*," Treville says, and knocks back the last of his wine — 

The rest of them follow suit — 

"But," Treville says, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "I would like to point out that Marie-Angelique *loves* me, Porthos thinks I'm a good *prospect* for his jiggly arse, and every last one of you can go suck off angry bulls — after, of course, you suck *me* off." 

Porthos *snorts*. "Because sucking off an angry dog is *better*?" 

Reynard stands and offers Porthos his hand — 

Porthos takes it and lets Reynard haul him to his feet — 

Haul him close and — close. "Porthos..." 

Porthos grins. "Yeah, mate?" 

Reynard grins and licks his lips — *and* Porthos's. They're that close. 

Porthos shivers — 

Reynard is *gripping* his forearm — and Porthos is gripping him right back. But — 

"Reynard —" 

"Porthos," Reynard says, and tugs him even closer. "You desire notre meneur. Oui?" 

"Yeah. But —" 

"No *buts*, Porthos. You desire him, and you desire him in *many* of the same ways *I* do. I know this. I *also* know that notre meneur, at the *very* least, came *close* to convincing you to make love with him while you were alone with him today. Oui?" 

"Yeah, he did. And then we spoke to Ife and I — we — realized that I needed all of you. And we *both* remembered that some things ought to be talked about with *all* concerned parties *first*." 

"Will you try to seduce me with your... good behaviour?" 

That — Porthos grins and licks *Reynard's* lips. *Slowly* — 

Reynard *grunts* — 

Treville growls *hungrily* —

And Kitos is laughing again. *But* — 

"I'm saving my *good* behaviour for Kitos, mate," Porthos says. "I'm thinking he'll appreciate it more." 

Reynard grins like a *madman* — 

Kitos thunders laughter — 

But Treville *stops* growling. "Actually." 

"Yeah, mate?" And Porthos doesn't look away from Reynard's eyes. They're daring each other to make the next move, and — 

Porthos doesn't actually back down from dares. 

Ever. 

"Actually, I'm about to scruff you again —" 

"That's fair —" 

"But first I'm going to say that Kitos only *pretends* to appreciate well-behaved people." 

Kitos *chokes* on his laughter — 

And Porthos nods thoughtfully. "That does make sense. Given who he spends all his bloody time with." 

"Nobody else will *have* me anymore! I'm *tainted*!" 

Porthos grins — and doesn't turn away from Reynard's hot, mad eyes. "Is that so, Kitos? Are you a dirty, dirty man?" 

"Uhh..." 

"Have you been uh... led astray, like?" 

Kitos laughs a little *nervously*, which is a *fascinating* sound to hear thundering across a tavern. "Porthos —" 

"Mayhap you need someone with a firm hand to — glrk —" And Porthos doesn't actually have *time* to let go of Reynard before Treville is hauling him across the *room* — 

Reynard is snickering and stumbling *after* — 

Kitos is *booming* laughter and righting the chairs they'd knocked over — 

And then they're out in the night, and walking — 

Well, Porthos is still *being* walked — "If I promise to be good —" 

"I won't *believe* you," Treville says and keeps walking them down the street — 

Porthos coughs and snickers. "I would like to point out —" 

"I'm not *listening* —" 

"— that *you* told me that Kitos didn't like well-behaved people —" 

"You didn't have to —" 

"I really did — nnk —" 

Reynard snickers and kisses Porthos's cheek — 

"Thank you," Porthos chokes out — 

"That's right, mate," Kitos says. "*Always* thank him for getting you in trouble!" 

Porthos wedges his fingers between the leathers and his throat. "What I want to know is when *you're* going to get me in —" 

"More trouble?" And Kitos's warm, dark eyes are twinkling in the moonlight — 

Porthos grins — 

"Meneur..." 

"No, I *won't* let him go, yet —" 

"Non, non, I would never get between you and your need to enforce discipline on our pack!" 

Porthos checks — 

Treville is *absolutely* blushing. Right, then. 

"I *knew* it — verrat —" 

"On it, fox-face," Kitos says, and whallops Treville a *good* one — 

He only barely manages to catch his hat when it goes flying — 

Though at least he *releases* Porthos —

And then Kitos whallops *him*, and there are many stars... sodding everywhere. 

"When were you berks going to tell *us* you were thinking of each other as pack?" 

Porthos is still — 

Trying to *focus* — 

"Verrat, did you hit him as hard as you usually hit notre *meneur*?" 

"Oh — *shit*," Kitos says, and then Porthos is being petted by huge, gentle hands. 

While he blinks. 

And tries to see again — 

"Bloody hell, Kitos, did you break him?" 

"I... don't think so? Do we have any smelling salts?" 

"'m not — 'm. *Fuck*," Porthos says, and shakes himself — 

And starts to tip — 

Kitos catches him and leans him up against a wall — 

Reynard whistles. "Verrat, you are usually more *careful*." 

"I *know* — *fuck*. It's just —" 

"He is so much *like* notre meneur, oui, je sais. I probably would've hit him that hard, too." 

Kitos sighs dejectedly —

"Right, no, let me fix this," Treville says, peeling off his gloves and cupping Porthos's face with his right hand — and what looks like a little wooden dog with the left. "Just give me — a moment —" 

And then Porthos is being *jolted* with earth-energy the way he's never been before. 

When his mum would give him *her* magic, it was always smoother, more flowing, more — 

More bloody *natural*. 

*This* feels exactly like it's being redirected *from* the All-Mother on a *weird* path through Treville before finally landing *on* him as much as in him. 

There's *waste* — 

But. 

He's still healed. 

He's still *properly* healed. 

*But* — "Mate, we have *got* to get you down to commune with the All-Mother." 

"I — what? Was that — I could feel something different about that healing, but..." 

"Yeah? I could feel the *torturous* path the magic took to get to you — and then *me*. I could feel that there was *waste*. Plus — that little dog... it's what lets you pull more power from the All-Mother, right?" 

"Yes —" 

"It's a *problem*, mate. It's holding you apart from Her while *stealing* from Her." 

Treville winces — and then shakes his head once. "Are you all *right*." 

"You can tell that I am. But listen —" 

"We're helping *you* tonight —" 

"We're helping *all* of us tonight," Porthos says, moving off the wall to loom over Treville a bit — 

Treville growls — 

"Don't growl at me, mate, you *know* you need to protect your pack —" 

"You *are* my pack!" 

"I —" 

"Don't *fight* me." 

*Porthos* growls, and it's bloody ridiculous with a shifter right there — 

Treville's *ears* flatten to his head — 

His eyes *flare* — 

Kitos laughs more — "Yeah, mate, you're asking for —" 

And Porthos just *is* back up against the wall, coughing out his air into Treville's *mouth* — 

"— it," Kitos says, and laughs hard. 

"Ah, oui, he was very provoking." 

"Aye, there really wasn't any other outcome, here." 

"Non, non." 

And — Porthos can't think about that, can't — 

It's Treville, and he's smaller, but he's *hard*, so *hard*, and *strong* — 

He's forcing Porthos to bend his *knees* — 

And then Treville's hands are on Porthos's face, cupping his face and tilting it to make the kiss deeper, harder, *better* — 

It's *Treville* — 

And there's a part of Porthos's mind which is only remembering every fantasy he wasn't really admitting to himself, every *one* that involved calling *his* Treville 'sir' while the man bent him over, or pushed him down to his knees, or shoved Porthos's knees back to his chest and *had* him. 

The rest of him is thinking about *this* Treville, and his honesty, and his hunger, his *open* hunger, his proprietary *grip* on Porthos — right from the bloody beginning!

The — 

The claim of it all. 

And now he's the one blushing, and groaning, and *shaking* — 

Treville *growls* — 

Porthos's whole *body* prickles with new sweat — and he — 

He can do this. 

He *can*. 

He can lick *this* Treville's tongue — 

Suck it when Treville nods and starts to *fuck* him with it — 

Suck it on every *thrust* — 

He's getting so *hard* — 

Treville *grinds* against him — 

*Again* — 

And then he pulls back.

Just — 

Just like that. 

And Porthos is staring and blinking like Kitos had hit him again. 

"Right, *now* you blokes can make time with him." 

Kitos laughs more. "Oh, *can* we, Fearless?" 

"Non, verrat, it makes perfect sense! Notre meneur had to leave his *mark* on our new pack-member, as is his right." 

"Shouldn't Laurent do it, too, then?" 

"Oh, hm. Meneur?" 

Treville stares into Porthos's eyes and licks his lips — and adjusts himself in his trousers. "Laurent already kissed him. A *greeting* kiss, but —" 

"We know how Laurent does that, yeah," Kitos says, laughing and waving a hand in front of Porthos's face. 

"I'm uh. I'm feeling pretty agreeable right now." 

Reynard makes a face. "You need to be *disagreeable* for me. At least a *little*. Meneur, you kissed him too well!" 

Treville snorts and turns to Reynard — 

And without those eyes on him, Porthos can *think* again. "Wait, wait, *Treville* —" 

Treville growls, low and *promising* —

"We both know you can *drop* me like that, but *don't*, all right? Let me *help* —"

And Treville has one hand on his throat and the other on his *bollocks* through his trousers — but Kitos has *his* hand on Treville's shoulder. "I *gave* you your chance, Kitos —" 

"Let him help, Fearless." 

"We have *whoring* to do. Or, if not that —" 

"Then, meneur, you will speak to your goddess and then *bite* us. Bite *all* of us, non? *Bind* all of us."

"I —" 

"*Including* Porthos, hey? Keep a lead on him, Fearless. Just the way you want to." 

And Treville flushes *hard*. "I — I... please. That's what I'm afraid of," he says, and takes a step back, and another — and another after that. 

And then he covers his face with his hands. 

Porthos *pants* — 

"What? *What* are you afraid of, Fearless? You know that's not allowed," Kitos says — 

And Treville laughs painfully — 

Drops his hands — 

"Fuck, I —" He turns to Porthos. "You saw me — lose it a little, earlier." 

Porthos nods. 

"That was — I was thinking about it." 

"'It'?" 

"Making you — want to stay here. Keeping you here."

Porthos blinks — and blushes. "Treville..." 

Treville winces. "I know you have your own life, your own *loves*. You have *brothers*. I — if I bite you. I'm just going to need you more. I know I will. And — we both know there would be other problems." 

Porthos swallows. He knows 'so don't bite me' isn't really an answer. Not once Treville lets *himself* off the lead. 

Not with him feeling like Porthos is *pack* — and, fuck if he doesn't feel it, too. 

Feel it for *all* of these people, and — 

And. 

That's just it. 

"You have to let me protect you, Treville. All of you." 

"Porthos —" 

"All of *us*." 

Reynard inhales sharply — 

Kitos goes *silent* — 

And Treville shudders once, all over. "Say it. Say it again. Please." 

Another thinly-veiled order. 

Porthos wants the veils gone. 

"You have to let me protect. Our. *Pack*." 

Treville growls and rolls his head on his neck. "I — I do. I do. Even if you leave. Even if you leave — immediately. *Fuck*, let me kiss you one more — " 

"Wouldn't you rather lick me?" 

Treville *snarls* and *bites* him, right on the jaw, right through the *beard* — 

"*Fuck*, that's hot —" 

And then the bites come fast, come hard, come *viciously* — 

All *over* his jaw, his mouth, his *throat* — 

It's so good —

It's so bloody *good* —

Porthos can't help pushing *into* it — 

And then Treville licks his way into Porthos's mouth, licks his way back out again, pulls Porthos's head down and licks him all over his *face* — 

"Shit, that's good, that's — I love it, I want it — *mm* —" 

And the dog's *long* tongue is in his mouth, taking up room, taking up *residence* — 

Porthos slurps and *sucks* — 

Treville shudders *hard* — and then pulls back. "Take me — show me how to do this. Please. Show me — right now." 

Kitos and Reynard pull Treville into a *hard* hug, licking him a little and squeezing him tight. 

Porthos adjusts himself in his trousers and — yeah. The alley isn't cobbled. Perfect.

Treville just isn't *experienced* enough at this to do it where he can't touch earth, however fouled by city-people. It will — 

"Are we doing it in *there*, Porthos?" 

— work. "Yeah, we are, mate. C'mon." 

And things get a bit crowded and dim once they're all in there, but — it'll be fine. Treville's not going to need to *see* much. 

Porthos gestures him close and crouches — 

Treville crouches with him — "What do I need to do?"

"You already have your gloves off, which is perfect. You're going to touch the ground — the *earth* — with both hands —" 

"You're joking." 

"Are you bloody *squeamish*?" 

"*You* can't smell everything that's happened in this alley in the past six *months*." 

Which — is a point. "Right, all right, but *you* can't do this just anywhere — you need earth." 

"We can ride out of the — no, shit, you're right, no wasting time. What about my jackal?" 

"You shouldn't need it. Just — get your hands right down there. Nice and flat — yeah, like that —" 

"I've never felt more like bathing in my *life* —" 

Kitos thunders laughter — 

Reynard is *snickering* — 

*Porthos* is thinking about all the times they've been out on maneuvers or something and utterly filthy and the Captain — *Treville* — has looked thrilled to be *alive* — 

But. 

They actually have to focus. "He's going to need us to be pretty quiet in a minute," Porthos says — 

"Ah, oui? He is... going to pray?" 

"Sort of. He's going to *commune* with the All-Mother, and, chances are, She's going to take him *inside* Her —" 

"He's going to fuck a *goddess*?" And Kitos's bushy eyebrows are *way* up. 

Reynard is *blinking* — 

But. "Well... a bit?" 

Treville *coughs* — 

Chokes, really — 

Reynard pats his back. "Remember, meneur, *ask* the goddess whether she would like her cunt spanked *first*." 

Right, now *he's* choking — 

And Kitos is *roaring* laughter — 

And Treville is shoving Kitos and Reynard out of the alley — 

"Hey, watch those filthy hands of yours, Fearless!" 

"I believe they will just get dirtier, verrat —" 

"*Shut* it —" 

"We'll uh —" Kitos coughs and sobers himself *badly* — 

"We will walk on a little further," Reynard says, and pushes Kitos up the block. 

Treville sighs and comes back. 

Crouches. 

Plants his hands. 

*Lifts* his hands —

"Oi —" 

"How literal is the fucking?" 

"From all the descriptions I've seen and heard? She's going to ream you *senseless*, mate." 

"While I'm... fucking... Her?" 

"Well... yeah?"

Treville stares at him. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

"Fuck this," Treville says, and plants his hands again. "Now what." 

"*Pretend* you're holding your — jackal. Open yourself up to your magic —" 

"Only... draw on the earth?" 

"Open to it. Open to *Her*. She's been waiting. It shouldn't take —" 

And then the earth *swallows* Treville before he can do so much as make a *sound*. 

"— long." 

Right, then. 

He'll just wait here, in this smelly little alley —

There's really *no* sign — 

Just Treville's scuffed bootprints — 

Well. 

Porthos hopes the All-Mother isn't *too* hacked-off. He's always heard She loves Her children, and Treville just didn't know. 

Ignorance has to count for something, right?

And there really weren't *any* other good options. 

And — 

All right, what *exactly* is he going to do if the All-Mother *is* dangerously hacked-off with Treville?

She's a *goddess*. 

He's been *siphoning* power from Her for *years*, and — 

"F-fuck!" 

And Treville's back. 

And shaking. 

And *thrumming* with *power*, fuck — the air is practically *crackling* with it. 

He's on his hands and knees, panting and trembling and *swaying* a little — 

He *reeks* of sex and *plants* — 

Or possibly sex *with* plants? Wait, no. "All right, mate?" 

"I haven't been fucked like that... *ever*." 

"Right, yeah, but —" 

"Not even the first time I told Laurent I wanted to be his *boy*." 

"*Shit* — but —" 

"Not even the first time I told *Kitos* that I'd know he *really* loved me if he did me *hard* —" 

"Right, you're an arsehole, but —" 

"A really well-used arsehole that night, but —" 

Porthos splutters and *shoves* him — 

He groans and keels over, then starts snickering. "Oh, fuck, Porthos, that was — that was... uh... *fuck*." And then he starts snickering more. 

Kitos and Reynard jog up and join them in the alley again, looking back and forth between them — 

Kitos gets right down and starts looking Treville over —

"Dieu, he smells like he's been whoring all *night*. In a *forest*." 

"And he's *acting* drunk —" 

"I'm — I'm fine, lads," Treville says, and snickers more. "She made me spend four *times*. She was — inside me. All through me. All *over* me. I can tell that She was *taking* it all." 

"To do *what*, Fearless?" 

"Well, I asked Her that. She said something about fertilizing other *selves* and my mind started to go hazy." 

Reynard and Kitos laugh *nervously* — 

"*Exactly*. This is *after* She made me give Her my entire life *story*. Just — just everything that had ever happened to me, everything I was, everything I'd been. *Why* I'd been those things. *How* I'd been those things. Who I'd been those things *with*. And I..." And Treville swallows. He's not laughing anymore.

Reynard and Kitos share a look. 

They *wince* — 

"Meneur..." 

"She... She wept with me. Over —" Treville shakes his head. "She said She had *felt* what was happening, all those years ago, but She couldn't *do* anything because we were using our jackals and not — not *speaking* to Her —" 

"*Shit* —" 

Reynard and Kitos hug Treville *tight* — 

"She said — She said it wasn't too late. That *She* couldn't break the — the fucking *spells*, because they were cast under the aegis of Death, however *incorrectly* —" 

"Wait, wait —" 

"What are you saying, meneur?" 

Treville pushes back, stands, and wipes his eyes with the back of his arm. "They're still alive. Both of them." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"*Hidden*, but *alive*. My boy. My boy is the key. He's alive, and he's strong, and he's *healthy* — my *mate* is *sick*, just like... I've always been able to *feel* — I wasn't fooling myself — and he's the *key* to all this. He's the one who can break the spell. *I* can't do it, but *he* can." 

"Mais — *how*, meneur?" 

"He has to find me," Treville says, and bares his teeth. "He has to — somehow — *find* me. Or I have to find a way to bring him *to* me. All he has to do is look into my eyes while actively looking for Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville... and then it can all be right again. Or — the All-Mother said the curse could also be broken if we shared blood again, blood to *cleanse*, but I have no idea how the bloody hell —" And Treville starts to pace. 

Porthos stands and cups Treville's shoulder. "Let me help. Let me — let me do everything I *can* to help." 

"Because you haven't already, mate?" 

"Treville —" 

Treville gives him one of those crooked smiles — and covers Porthos's hand with his own. "I think... time moved differently down there, in the earth. I think — it felt like I was down there for *hours*." 

Porthos shakes his head. "It was only a minute or two." 

Kitos and Reynard make agreement sounds. 

Treville licks his lips and nods. "Teach me. Teach me everything. Teach me, and — fuck. I already *tried* summoning my boy, because I knew it would bring *her*, too —" 

"Try *again*. It's not like you threw those possessions of theirs *out*." 

"And. Maybe you know..." Treville licks his lips. "You know a lot of magic — you *understand* and *feel* a lot about magic — for someone who *isn't* a witch." 

Porthos shrugs. "The witch who mostly raised me said I *would* grow into a witch — an earth-witch, but it never seemed to happen. I figured she had to be wrong about *something*." 

"Perhaps this is a mystery *you* will solve, meneur," Reynard says, and licks Treville's mouth. 

Treville blinks — 

Licks Reynard back almost absently — 

Looks *deeply* thoughtful — 

And Kitos laughs hard. "*Someone's* not thinking about getting his ashes hauled anymore." 

Treville blushes hard — "I —"

"Don't you apologize, Fearless! Take Porthos back to your rooms. Take us *all* there. Let's do some more scary magic shit."

"Oui," Reynard says, and wraps an arm around Treville's shoulders. "Later, we will see if the All-Mother left anything for the rest of us." 

"I'm actually randy as a — me —" 

Kitos laughs more and puts *his* arm around Porthos's shoulders and leads him out of the alley. "What say you, mate? Will that help or hinder?" 

"Uhh... well, he *does* have to concentrate —" 

"Bien, we will help him concentrate." 

Kitos beetles his brows and nods. "Absolutely. We'll clear his mind *right* out. Won't we, mate?"

Treville snickers — 

And Porthos feels — warm. 

Helpful. 

*Good*. 

Somehow like he *belongs* — 

"I think I can work with that."


	6. Surprise!

It's not much. 

The colourful blanket Layo had woven, and which their son had pissed in no less than fifteen times in those first few *weeks*. 

One arm and one leg of the equally-colourful ragdoll he and Amina would make dance for their son — as often as possible. 

One little bootie. 

The rest, Amina had run with when she'd disappeared. 

She must've had it on her *back* when that monster of a death-mage — no. 

Not that. 

Not right now. 

He looks up from the little table in his sitting room, and his brothers are right there. His — and Porthos. Who *isn't* his brother, yet, but who damned well should be. 

Reynard on his right. Kitos on his left. Porthos across from him. 

Waiting for him to — 

To just — 

No, wait. He grabs Reynard's forearm and pushes his leathers back, staring at his forearm. 

"Meneur...? Oh — *bite*. Bite *now* —" 

He doesn't wait. He doesn't — 

Porthos gasps a little when Treville shifts his teeth, but he doesn't rear back, or — 

And Reynard tastes just as good, as perfect, as hot-sweet-metal-PERFECT — 

He'd always *known* — 

He's lapping and lapping — 

The wound is healing too *quickly* — 

Reynard is moaning and *gasping* laughter — "Then you must bite *again* — oh. Oh, I *heard* —" (Meneur...?) 

I'm here... and so are you. I'll never let you *go*. 

(*Merde*, I I I — I can *feel* it — plus vite, you must bite notre verrat —) 

Treville growls and pulls back even as he *reaches* for Kitos — 

Kitos laughs. "Fuck, Fearless, were you *talking* to fox-face in there?" 

"Oui, verrat, and making me *feel* —" Reynard shudders and grins, bright and broad and *mad*. "*Do* it!"

Kitos stares wide-eyed at Reynard for a moment — but he's already giving Treville his arm, his big, broad, *strong* — 

So hairy and *perfect* — 

Treville *shoves* up Kitos's leathers and *bites* — 

*Takes* — 

Kitos breathes in so *sharply* — 

And oh, Treville needs so much, he needs so *much*, it's been so *long* — 

It feels like he needed this — just *this* — when he was a fourteen-year-old *recruit* and Kitos was Honoré, was the giant and funny and *smart* boy who was always *trying* to keep him out of trouble and somehow winding up — 

(Deep — deep in hot water *with* you!) And Kitos's laugh inside is wild and rough and — quieter, somehow — 

Kitos, Kitos, I need you, I love you, stay *with* me — 

(Oh, Fearless — *fuck*, you feel perfect — I could *never* leave you —) 

Stay with me *forever* — 

(Feel you — you're making me *feel* you — *fuck*, Fearless — I already knew you loved me, but —) 

Treville *opens* the bite-wound on Kitos's arm again and *forces* his need, his hunger, his *fear* of life without Kitos, his brother, his first *brother* — 

Kitos is groaning and *clutching* the back of his head — 

Keeping him *bent* to his arm — 

And — 

And Reynard is laughing, close and *with* them, close and *in* them —

(F-fox-face —) 

(I *told* you he would make you feel.) 

(*Fuck* —) 

(Aucune idée de — how are we supposed to not *beg* him to do this all the *time*?) 

And then there's one of Kitos's weirdly *quiet* laughs — 

Kitos?

(I — I'm not so big in here —) 

What? 

(We will be big *for* you, oui?) And Reynard is nudging him — 

Fuck, yes — and — and it's *all* of us, it *will* be all of us, we'll all be *together* — 

*Reynard's* laugh curls and coils around all of them and *squeezes* — 

Treville is hard as *steel* — 

(*Bien*. But will Porthos be with us, too, meneur...?) 

I... 

(You *want* it, Fearless!) 

(Oui, and —) 

*He* wants to —

(Just *admit* you want to fuck him, bite him, and make him one of us, Fearless!) 

He wants to go *home*, Treville says, and — pulls back, once he's sure that Kitos's wounds are healed. That's what we have to go with. That's what we have to *do*. 

And — 

He can *feel* Kitos and Reynard *looking* at each other for that — 

But — 

But he's already taking too much of Porthos's time. 

He's — 

He shifts his teeth back — 

"That's pretty amazing," Porthos says with a grin. "That you have the control to do that with just one part of your body, and all." 

Treville looks up — 

Stares into Porthos's smiling eyes — 

Smells his — "What are you hungry for." Shit —

That was too blunt — 

That was — and Porthos is *blinking* — 

*Blushing* — 

"Ah, oui? Tell us, Porthos! Tell us about *all* of your hungers!" 

Kitos laughs and *whacks* Porthos on the back — "Come on, now! Don't play the blushing virgin with us!" 

Porthos laughs and *grins* at Kitos. "I was just trying to be *alluring*, mate —" 

Kitos *booms* laughter — 

"Non, non, Porthos, we like *experienced* lovers —" 

"That's *right*," Treville says, and tries to pretend he's not *aching* for — more. Just more. 

Porthos looks at him right away, though, and smiles ruefully. "I was uh... dreaming of my brothers. Dreaming of being able to share myself with them, and having them share *themselves* with *me*." 

Treville takes a breath. "You should have that." 

Porthos grins. "Sometimes I think everyone worth *anything* should — but." He shrugs. 

"Don't pretend it doesn't mean anything to you, hey?" And Kitos shakes Porthos by the shoulder. "Don't hide from this." 

"I —" 

"We are not hiding from *anything*," Reynard says. 

Kitos beetles up his brows and nods. "So tell us all *about* your brothers. What do you need to share with them that you haven't?" 

Porthos laughs ruefully and leans back in his chair. "I *want* to say *nothing* —" 

"*But*...?" 

Porthos grins at Kitos again. "*But*... I haven't actually told them that I love them. I mean — I've told them that I *love* them, that they're my family, that they mean the *world* to me —" 

"But you haven't told them that you're *in* love with them," Treville says, and — he's flushing, he's — 

And Porthos is looking right at him again. "I haven't, no. I mean, they've both turned me down, for one —" 

"Take it from us," Kitos says, and leans in. "Sometimes 'no' just means 'I'm terrified by what I just figured out about myself, try again in a little while.'" 

"Mais oui. It can *also* mean, 'I have spent the past twenty *years* lying to myself about what it means that I desire to spend the vast majority of the important moments of my life with *men*, and now I need time to tear those lies down. Or help to do so. Grab me by the cock.'" 

Treville *coughs* — 

"You must admit, meneur, this worked very well with the two of us." 

Kitos laughs and turns to Reynard. "Didn't he also slam you up against a wall and bite you?" 

Reynard sighs happily — and dreamily. "Oui..." 

And Porthos snickers and grins — at him. 

And Treville wants to know if he ever wants to be treated that way. If — 

(Ask him, Fearless!) 

*Shit* — 

And Reynard and Kitos are both laughing at him *hard* — 

Treville is *blushing* — 

This — 

*Shit*. 

"To — to be fair, Fearless, it was pretty obvious what you were thinking just then even *without* you flashing your metaphorical ankles at me —" 

Reynard laughs *harder* — 

And Porthos is grinning... slyly. Just — 

"How obvious was it," Treville says. 

"I think — maybe — you were wondering what I'd do if you ever slammed *me* against a wall —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"And really, mate, I have to point out here that I've let you scruff me and choke me and smack me *around* —" 

"I." Treville licks his lips. 

Porthos waggles his eyebrows. 

"It... was all meant very lovingly?" 

Porthos looks *down* — 

Treville can't *take* — 

"I know that, mate," Porthos says, and looks *up* again, smiling ruefully, wryly, *hungrily*. "I know it was. I loved it. Every minute of it." 

Treville *pants* — 

Tries to — 

To focus on other *things* — 

"No you *don't*, Fearless —" 

"Oui, you will focus on *this*," Reynard says *threateningly*, and suddenly there's a *blade* on the table — 

Aimed pointedly at *him* — 

"Kitos — *Reynard* —" 

"We have to be honest with each other," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully again. "We have to be — we have to give everything. Yeah?"

"I — I have to let you — I have to get you *home*!" 

Porthos inhales with a *shudder*. "But you don't want to." 

"You. You don't know how much you feel like —" Home. *Home*. Treville snarls and turns *away* — 

"*Meneur* —" 

He turns *back*. "I will not *fail* you, Porthos. I will *not* — I'm a better man than this!" 

And Porthos is panting, staring — 

Blushing and — confused. 

Hungry. 

*Aroused*, just a little slick in his breeches, and Treville had already *told* him what that did to him and — 

And Porthos isn't as confused as he could be. 

He knows this, he *feels* this — 

(Oui, meneur, *take* —) 

(Don't get in your own bloody *way*, Fearless. Don't —) 

And Treville is growling again, growling and staring and —

"What." Porthos licks his lips. "What... didn't you say before. When you were saying what I *felt* like." 

(If you don't answer him, Fearless, *I will*.) 

(And so will *I* —) 

"Home. You. You feel like home. Please don't —" 

"And it's been — all along for you. With me, I mean. Hasn't it." 

They're both panting. They're *all* panting — "Yes. *Yes*." 

"Then uh. Maybe we should." Porthos squeezes his eyes shut and shudders. "Wait, wait. Kitos, Reynard, how are you both — I mean, I haven't even *spoken* to the Captain about this, and his *wife* —" 

"But I bet he already loves you, hey?" And Kitos grips Porthos's forearm. 

"Ah, oui. Notre Laurent, he moves as fast as notre meneur, at times." 

"Right, but —" 

"We move slower, mate," Kitos says. "You're right about that. But not *much* slower — and you keep being exactly as good as Fearless thinks you are." 

Reynard nods. "Oui. Here, let us help notre meneur, Porthos..." 

"Help?" 

Reynard smiles, and leans in, and his long, red hair falls to obscure his and Porthos's faces — but not the sounds of their kiss. 

Their — 

Their slow kiss, their hot kiss, their hungry, hard — 

*Wet* — 

Treville is panting like a *bellows* — 

And Kitos's great paw is in Treville's lap, working his cock through his trousers and breeches — 

Making him — 

Making him so *needy* — 

"You already *were* needy, Fearless. I'm just making you *admit* it." 

Treville *croons* —

The scents of Kitos's and Reynard's lust *spike* — 

And Porthos smells more curious, more hungry, more — 

He pushes his hands into Reynard's long, thick hair — 

He grips it *cautiously* — 

Kitos *squeezes* Treville — 

Treville *grunts* and wraps his shaking hands around Kitos's hand and arm — "Please — please don't make me —" 

"Lose control, Fearless? I think you should..." 

"Fuck —" 

And Reynard licks out of Porthos's mouth — 

Licks a long stripe over Porthos's *cheek* — 

Treville's cock *jerks* — 

"Notre meneur must show notre nouveau frère what he can *have*..." 

"I want it, I *want* it," Porthos says, and bites Reynard's *throat* — 

"I think you *need* it," Kitos says, easily batting Treville's hands aside and opening Treville's trousers — 

Treville's *breeches* — 

"Oui — ah, *oui* — oh, Porthos, your *lips* —" 

"Want — want to wrap them around *all* your cocks —" 

And there's a moment when Treville can't *see* — 

Can't — 

Can't think or breathe or —-

And then he's aware again, and his brothers are laughing at him, laughing *hard*, and Treville's trousers and breeches are in serious danger of tripping him up, and he's shoving and stumbling and *walking* Porthos back and back to the *wall* — 

Right next to the portrait of his *father* — 

And Porthos is taking it from him, taking everything, graceful and easy and *ready* for him — 

So — 

"Let me make you wild for me," Treville says, and starts to strip him — 

Porthos laughs. "I'm all right with that —" 

"Do you *want* it." 

"*Fuck*, Treville —" 

"Do you?" 

"I want you, I want all of you, I want all of you all *over* me — I don't know — *I'm* not usually this —" 

"Fast?" 

"*Crazy*. Fuck — I'm — oh, touch me, please touch me —" 

"Where." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Answer me." 

Porthos whines — 

*Whines* — 

And Treville bites his throat before he can stop himself, bites him *hard* — but doesn't break the skin. 

He doesn't — 

He manages — 

(Maybe you *should* break the skin, meneur...) 

Porthos is *groaning* — 

Cupping the back of Treville's head so *gently* — 

Pulling him *in* — 

(No maybes. Bind him right *to* us, Fearless —) 

*KITOS*! And Treville *yanks* himself back — 

Porthos *gasps* — 

Blinks at him *dazedly* — 

He looks so — 

So *soft* — 

And Treville has his tunic off — 

And his shirt — 

Their belts were *already* off — 

His extra dagger feels *good* right where it is — Treville leaves it. 

Trousers open — 

Breeches — so wet, *bulging* — 

Treville is *growling* — 

Hauling everything *down* — 

He's so big, so strong — 

(You could bite his thigh, meneur...) 

*Fuck* — 

(You *should* bite him everywhere. Let go. Make him —) 

Treville snarls and steps back — 

Back and *back* — 

He covers his face - 

"Oi, *wait*," Porthos says, and those are his rough hands on Treville's wrists. "What — what have you two been *saying* to him?" 

"The *truth*," Reynard says — 

"Aye, mate," Kitos says. "He wants you to be *completely* a part of this pack — so he *ought* to bite you." 

"Oh — oh..." And Treville can hear Porthos lick his lips —

Hear his heartbeat *speed* —

He's still holding Treville's wrists, but now it's more of a *clutch* — 

"Do you *not* want that, mate?" 

"I —" 

"You want to *give* yourself to notre meneur! To all of us!" 

"I *do*. And I want to bloody *take*, too, but —" 

Treville growls and drops his hands. "If we find a way to send him home after that — or if he just gets yanked back randomly the way he got yanked *here* — then he'll be... weakened. Sick. *Hurt* —" 

"What?" 

"Meneur, what are you —" 

"The *only* way he *wouldn't* be hurt would be if we were sending him to the future. Our own future, where he'd still be bound to *me*. And." He looks to Porthos. "We already mucked that up." 

"He — what would *happen* to him, Fearless?" 

"He would have to bind himself to another witch — and hope that witch wasn't an arsehole who would use him —" Treville growls and cups Porthos's face with both hands. "I haven't — been completely useless. I've studied some of this." 

Porthos nods. "I — I need you to know that I still want it." 

Treville whines. "My — bite?" 

"Everything from you. Everything — there's something *about* you —" 

"Wait," Reynard says, and stands. "*Wait*. Ife said we must be *completely* honest and open with each other, non?" 

Treville turns to face Reynard — "She did, but —" 

"But *nothing*, Fearless. You've got no bloody choices here," Kitos says, and stands, as well. "This *is* your path to complete honesty and everything else. And we *all* know it's the only way you *can* be completely honest without someone bloody on top of you all the time." 

"I —" 

And Porthos smacks the back of his head — 

"*Hey* —" 

"You earned that, mate," Porthos says, and his smile is hungry, rueful, needy — 

His scents are so wild and *hopeful* — 

So — 

"Porthos..." 

"It can be bloody wonderful. Not having choices, I mean." And Porthos is smiling — 

Beckoning and *smiling* as he leans against the wall Treville had *put* him on — 

And Treville knows this is too much, knows it's too fast and too much and too — 

But Porthos is against the wall, and his scents are high in Treville's nose, and Treville is licking him. His face, his ears — 

His throat and chest — 

"Yeah — fuck — *fuck* —" 

His nipples and collarbone and back to his throat, his long, strong, throat, and — 

There's a bite-scar on his shoulder. Old, stretched out of shape. 

He was young when he was bitten, but — 

It's compelling. 

Treville has to bite — right there — 

Porthos *shouts* for him — 

Porthos bucks — and Treville realizes that he'd cupped his beautiful dark cock, so thick and — 

But there's blood in his mouth, rich blood, hot blood, and something — 

Something strange —

Something — 

Images instead of a connection — 

Voices — 

_"I am so sorry I had to do that, sweet boy —"_

_"It's all right, Maman! I know you have to do it for your magic!"_

_"That — that's *right*, but a mama should never hurt her boy..."_

_And he's looking up at Amina, at his Amina-love, and she's too thin, she's sick, she's *hurting* even as she *pours* magic —_

_Too much of her *magic* — into Porthos._

Into. 

Oh. 

Oh, fuck... 

(Treville...?) 

Porthos — *Porthos* — 

(What — why are you so — that's my *mum* — ) 

And Treville can only lap the bite-wound closed and — give. 

_"Jean-*Armand*, if you do not stop looking at me like a *meal* right this second —"_

_"What will you do, mm?" And Treville puts just a little bit more of a swagger in his walk, just a little bit more *obnoxiousness* —_

_And his Amina-love grabs him by the bollocks and *squeezes* with one hand and *slaps* him across the face with the other. "*This*, fool of a dog. I will do *this*."_

_Treville shakes himself exactly like the dog he is. "Unh. Well, I'm ready for a fuck against a wall —"_

_"It is time for dinner! Our son is hungry and so am *I*!" And she pats her wonderful big belly —_

_And — hm. She has a point._

_*But.*_

_"I could have Cook prepare a tray and you could eat that while I ate *you*...?"_

_She looks thoughtful —_

_This is a *good* sign —_

_Treville lolls his tongue for good measure —_

_"Get the tray *quickly*. And then we will see."_

_Treville tips the hat he isn't wearing and *goes*._

And Porthos is staring at him. 

The room is — silent. 

Porthos is — 

There are so *many* bloody things Treville wants right now, but first among them would be having Porthos — his *son* — be less bloody *perfectly* beautiful, less — 

He looks like — 

His eyes, his mouth, his nose, his *ears* — 

He *looks* like — 

"Mum?" And Porthos laughs a little hysterically, but only for a moment. "She used to say that there was... dark magic separating us from the rest of our family. I didn't... somehow I didn't make the connection. I feel like —"

"Don't feel stupid, Porthos. Don't feel —" Treville shakes his head, and swallows. "We were being blocked, magically. None of us — all we could see, before this moment, was that you were beautiful. The *All*-Mother couldn't tell me you were right there." 

"Right, that — because it would've been treading on Death's toes. Fuck. *Fuck*," Porthos says, and beats his head against the wall. 

Treville moves his hand to block him from doing that — 

His eyes are so hurt, so hungry — 

He smells so *fucking* good — 

"So do you, you know," Porthos says, standing straight and nodding to Kitos and Reynard, who have moved to join them. "My senses are... getting stronger." 

"Fuck — *you* —" Treville lifts his nose — 

Porthos is growing into power at speed. 

At *fast* speed. 

He *has* training, but he'll still need guidance — 

"He'll have *you*, Fearless," Kitos says, and cups the back of his neck. Grounds him. 

"Oui, meneur. And us, as well," Reynard says, and hugs Porthos. 

"A boy needs a *big* family," Kitos says. 

Porthos laughs again — and a sob comes out — "I don't — I don't know what to *think*. What — what about *my* Treville? Did he know? Did he — is he blocked, too?" 

They all wrap themselves around Porthos. 

They all hold him *close*. 

They need to make a plan to — to *deal* with this. 

But first they need to make themselves warm.


	7. It only has to be true right now, Porthos. And if you believe that...

Too many things seem funny right now. 

Being naked. 

Being naked in a *big* bed with Treville and Kitos and Reynard. 

The fact that Treville is — 

Is — 

All right, that's less funny than... 

Than — 

He doesn't know. 

He doesn't *bloody* know what to *do* with — it. 

Right now, Kitos and Reynard are surrounding him, but he could reach out and touch Treville anytime he wanted, because he's right on Reynard's other *side*. 

*Watching* him. 

*Hungrily* — 

He turns away. He — 

*Fuck*. 

Porthos turns his face in against Kitos's chest, because that's easier than anything else right now, than *everything* else, and — 

And not feeling Treville's eyes on him — 

His *father's* eyes — 

Treville makes a *hurt* sound — 

Porthos makes the same bloody *sound* — 

And he knows Treville is looking at him again. 

He knows — 

"I don't — I don't have to be here —"

"Meneur —" 

"Fearless, don't start that —" 

"Porthos *needs* to be comfortable —" 

"I need you here," Porthos mutters into Kitos's chest hair — no, he can do better than that. I need you here, he says to all of them, inside. I need — I'm sorry I'm not being more bloody *helpful* — 

And then he's *grunting*, because Reynard is *biting* him — 

Or I could shut it. 

Kitos laughs, moving the whole bed a little. 

*Treville* laughs *painfully* — "Oh — shit, Porthos, I never want you to be *quiet*." 

And Reynard pulls back. "Non, non, no *quiet*. But... you will not *abuse* yourself in our hearing." 

"That's *right*, mate. You're our — well, you were already our brother, and now you're our nephew, too —" 

"Oh, *fuck*," Porthos says, and his own laugh is pretty pained, too. 

"Hrm. Right," Kitos says, "let's pretend I didn't say that —" 

"You definitely — what did you say, verrat? I heard nothing." 

"Not a thing," Treville says. 

Porthos — laughs more. 

And more. 

Right — 

Right into all of Kitos's incredible *hair*, and maybe he's doing a little more than just laughing, but — 

It's all there. 

It's all right there. 

All those questions of his *childhood* *answered*. 

So many —

And that story. 

His Mum's *last* story, the one he never thought about because it hurt too bloody much, the one that — bloody *somehow* — had left his mind seemingly entirely as soon as he *saw* Treville — the one in *his* time. But. It had been storming outside, and all the draughts had made their two lonely little candles flicker again and again — 

And no matter how hard he'd tried not to, he'd been able to see it. 

How sick she was. 

How — how *old* she was getting, so much before her *time*. Even *he* had known she wasn't supposed to — 

And Treville is whining, outside this memory, *crying*, but Porthos has to show him, has to tell them, tell all of them — 

*Show* them — 

Show them his Mum talking about her loves, and her brothers. 

Show them his Mum miming Reynard's swagger with her fingers on the table — and doing a pretty fucking *amazing* impression of his thick, country accent as she talked about 'the wild one, the pretty one, the mad one, the *bizarrely* respectful one, the one always after the girls.' 

And there's his mum miming how *big* Kitos is, and how long his beard is, and how long his *hair* is, and she's throwing her arms out *wide* to show how big his *laughs* are as she talks about 'the cuddly one, the warm one, the one who always took care of *all* of us — despite ourselves.'

And. 

And then he knows how to *do* this. 

He can *feel* Treville *showing* him how, *begging* that he — 

_And there she is with her hands in her lap, and her eyes wide and dark and *distant*, and the child he used to be is right there patting gently at her knees —_

_"Maman? Is there more? Tell me more! I want to know!"_

_She licks her lips and frowns *horribly* —_

_"Please tell me more, Maman! I'll be good and listen and —"_

_And she clutches her belly for a moment —_

_"Oh, no! Maman —"_

_She *snarls* —_

_She *laughs* — and cups his face. "Sweet boy. My good, sweet boy..."_

_"Maman, are you —"_

_"Shh. My third brother. My *sweet* brother, my *love*, was not so pretty, and not so tall, but he made your mama laugh *all* the time, at the most *horrible* things. He made the world *brighter* and *better* and *wilder*. He made it *ours*. He made me his. And. He was mine."_

_"Oh. Ohhh. Did he *stop* being yours?"_

_"*Never*!" And she bangs her other fist on the table, making the candles flicker even more. "He will be mine until the end of *time*! And. I will be his for just that long. But he is lost to us now. He is — and we are — I think. I think I must sleep..."_

_"But who is he? Who are *they*?"_

_She staggers to her feet —_

_She nearly *falls* —_

_He goes to her and holds her up as best as he *can* —_

_"Oh, my sweet boy — you — you will find them. They are *Musketeers*, and I —"_

_She staggers again —_

_They *both* nearly *fall* —_

_She whines —_

_She whines again and *again* —_

_But eventually Porthos gets them to their little nest of blankets and gets her tucked in._

_She is sweaty, thin, grey, obviously fevered and delirious —_

_He's crying and petting and singing to her —_

And Porthos can't. 

Not anymore. 

Not — anymore. 

Out here, away from his memories, he's being held even more tightly — 

He's —

All right, he's being squeezed so tightly he can't actually *breathe* — 

But right now he's all right with that — 

Kitos squeezes him harder — 

"Oui, verrat, do that. We will watch to see if he changes colours too much." 

"I — I just —" 

"Je sais. Je *sais* —" 

"I — I don't understand," Treville says. "The All-Mother says Amina is alive... and I can *feel* her —" 

"*Good* —" 

"Oui, bien, we will *find* her, with Porthos's help —" 

"I don't understand how she could've lived so much *longer* than — fuck, Kitos, I need to hold my *son*." 

Kitos grunts — 

Loosens his grip enough for Porthos to *gasp* in breaths — 

Breath after *breath* — 

And. 

The room is silent. 

And. 

And they're all asking him a question. 

They — his *pack* is asking him a question.

Porthos sits up and turns to face Treville. There's only one way to answer that question — 

"That's *not* true, Porthos," Treville says. "That — put me *off* if I'm too much. Push me *away*. I — I just — you're more *important* —" 

"The *pack* is more important," Porthos says —

And Treville croons and looks at him so needily. "You — you're so many people to me." 

"Because you feel me now, and I — I feel you —" 

"But we have everything we felt *before* this —" 

"Everything drawing us *together* —" 

"Ah, fuck, Porthos. *Brother*. *Son*. *I hurt when you do*."

Porthos moans — 

Reynard sits up and moves out of the *way*. "C'est vrai. We *all* hurt when you do, frère." 

Kitos strokes Porthos's back. "It's how it works. It's how all of this works. You knew that already, hey?" 

Porthos breathes, tries to — 

He can't get control. 

He doesn't *have* any bloody *control* — 

"You don't need control. You don't — you don't need to be bloody *useful*. You don't have to *help* anyone. You don't have to do bloody —" Treville growls. "Let it out, let everything out. Whatever you need. Anything you *need*." 

Porthos shudders — 

He can't — 

He can't think — 

And Kitos is wrapping him up again — 

Kissing his cheek. "You don't have anyone you need to take care of right now, hey? Just let us have you for a little while." 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Blushes *hard* — 

And Reynard smiles and caresses his other cheek. "Ah, oui? I think this is something notre frère has not had..." 

"Please — I — I have to —" 

"The only thing you have to do, right now, is take what we give you," Treville says, and stares right into Porthos's eyes. He — 

"You — I have to make you feel better!" 

Treville closes his eyes and pants — 

Pants so — 

And when he opens them again, they're *blazing*. "That will ease you. Won't it." 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"Because you need to make your brothers feel *right*. Don't you." 

"Please, all the *time* —" 

"Shh, it's all right. I'll show you how to do it." 

And Porthos feels so hopeful, so — so *fucking* *needy* —

"C'est si beau," Reynard says, and moves his rough, strong hand to right over Porthos's pounding heart — 

And Kitos has one hand splayed on Porthos's belly and the other undoing his *scarf* — 

And Treville is moving close, so *close*. Shuffling in on his knees and cupping Porthos's *hips* — 

Urging Porthos to — 

To *straddle* him — 

"Is this — is this —" 

"Come to me, brother. I need you this way." 

Porthos *groans* — 

Wonders what it's *costing* Treville to call him *brother* — 

"Shh, don't think, don't think about anything. Just come to me." 

Porthos shudders and — just. 

Obeys. 

"That's right. That's perfect," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's hips — 

Licks his temple — 

"Treville —" 

"Put your head right down on my shoulder, brother." 

"I — I —" 

"Shh. Just obey me." 

*Fuck* — 

And Porthos feels himself — losing. 

Dropping — 

*Falling*, and he's lowering his head — 

Nosing right up against Treville's *throat* — 

He smells so good, so right — 

Like leather and gunpowder — 

Like sweat and — 

And hunger and need and worry and *love*, so much *love*, Porthos knows what love smells like — 

And knows when it's for him, too. 

He — 

He's shuddering so *hard*. 

He has to make a better sodding *showing* for — 

"Shh," Treville says, and squeezes him tight, holds him and — pets him. 

Long strokes. *Firm* strokes, right down his back — 

And Kitos is rubbing his belly with the hand between Porthos and Treville — 

And Reynard is stroking through Porthos's *hair* — 

"Just take it, brother..." 

Porthos — groans — 

Winces and — 

He can't just — 

"You can," Treville says, and strokes him more firmly, more — 

He licks Porthos's *ear* — 

"You can do anything I say you can." 

Porthos pants and *whines* as his cock jerks — 

He — 

Treville could *feel* that — 

Treville *knows* — 

And Porthos can't — 

"You can do anything I say you can," Treville says again, and *kisses* Porthos's ear. "And you can *have* anything I say you can." 

"Including — including an *erection*? *Now*?" 

"You may have noticed that I haven't gotten any softer, brother." 

Porthos grunts. "That — that..." 

"It's different? Why is that?" 

Porthos doesn't have an answer for that. 

He doesn't have any answers, at *all*, and they're all still petting — 

His brothers — 

His *Uncles* and *father* — 

"Anything you want. Anything you need," Treville says. 

"I have to —" 

"Including... giving us what *we* need," Treville says, and licks his lips, and the curve of Porthos's ear. 

Porthos moans again — 

"Fearless..." And there's a warning in Kitos's voice — 

"Meneur, perhaps we should not —" 

"We're going to give our brother everything he needs, lads," Treville says, and kisses Porthos's ear again. "We're not going to hold *back*. Are we." 

"Fuck —" 

"Non, *non* —" 

"I remember what it *felt* like when *you* were holding back, Fearless — ignore me," Kitos says, and goes back to rubbing Porthos's belly. 

Reynard *scratches* his *scalp* — "Do you need this, frère? Mm? To give us what we need?" 

And that. 

That sounds so — 

"Please," he says, and his voice is too small, his whole bloody *self* is too — 

"Shh," Treville says, and squeezes him *tight* — "You're just the right size. You're..." He sucks in a *harsh* breath. "I knew, practically from the first moment I *looked* at you, that everything about you was bloody *perfect*." 

Porthos pants and pants and —

He just — 

If they *tell* him what they need — 

"You're our brother," Treville says, and kisses his ear twice. "That will always be true." 

"Right, yeah, anything — I'll — anything you *want*." 

"There are things that can be true... sometimes," Treville says, and licks a long stripe from Porthos's jaw to his *hairline* — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Reynard *grips* his hair — 

And Kitos pushes his hand down and down until he's cupping Porthos's *cock*. 

"Please — please —" 

"We missed raising our Porthos. We missed raising our *boy*," Treville says... and pulls back. Just enough to meet Porthos's eyes. "You could give us... some of that." 

Porthos stares and — and — *fuck*. "No one — no one really — I was *apprenticed* more than raised, I don't know... how..." 

"You don't have to. You can just... let us use certain words," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"While. While I use certain other words?" 

"That's right." 

Porthos shivers — and blushes hard. 

He hasn't done this — 

He hasn't had — anything *like* this — 

Not — 

"But you've wanted it. You've wanted this game —" 

"It's — it's not a *game* —" 

"— and you've wanted it to be real," Treville says, smooth as bloody *silk*. He leans in and nuzzles Porthos's mouth — 

His beard is so *soft* — 

"Nothing can be more real than this."

And Porthos's belly is dropping even before Treville is finished — 

Even before — 

Even before Daddy is finished talking. 

He — 

Daddy is *growling* — 

"You're making him hot, lad," Kitos — *Uncle* Kitos says — 

"You are making us *all* — mm. Neveu. Would you like to suck my cock tonight...?"

Porthos opens his mouth to say *yes* — but a desperate *croon* comes out, a desperate panting *croon* — 

And Porthos *remembers* how hard he is, how hungry — 

How *slick* in Uncle Kitos's big *hand* — 

"I've got you, lad," Uncle Kitos says, and kisses his cheek so *softly* — 

"And so do I," Daddy says, and cups and *hefts* Porthos's bollocks. "Now show your Uncle Reynard what a good boy you can be. Kiss him wet and sweet."

Porthos's cock *jerks* in Uncle Kitos's hand — 

His bollocks are drawing *up* — 

He won't last — 

"You do not *have* to," Uncle Reynard says, leaning in and kissing Porthos's mouth softly, *dryly* — "Come to me, kiss me —" 

Porthos croons again and *reaches* for Uncle Reynard, holds him by his *hair* — 

"Oui, just like that, now *pull* —" 

Porthos groans and obeys — and the kiss is right there for him, right there the way it was before, only — more. 

Heavier. 

Hotter. 

Sweeter and deeper — 

Uncle Reynard is *seducing* him with this kiss, just as if — 

As if Porthos would say *no* — 

(Mais... you are mon neveu, mon petit neveu *tendre*. I have to be *good* to you. Non?) 

And Porthos is laughing into the kiss — 

Daddy is licking his cheek and *holding* his bollocks — 

And then Uncle Kitos *kisses* Porthos's other cheek and starts to *stroke* his cock — 

Porthos *gasps* — 

Uncle Reynard thumbs his nipples and *pinches* them — 

Porthos croons and gasps *again* — 

And then Daddy *crushes* Porthos's bollocks up against Uncle Kitos's working *hand* — 

Crushes them so *perfectly* — 

"We know what you need, son..." And Daddy sounds so hot, so *hungry* — 

"He's not the only *one*," Uncle Kitos says, laughing and panting and *squeezing* him — 

Porthos *yips* — 

"*Merde* —" And Uncle Reynard pulls back and bites Porthos's lips, sucks them, presses *closer* — 

Porthos wants to *touch* — 

"Do you, son?" 

And Porthos's belly drops again. Just - 

That voice — 

That *word* — 

"It's all yours. Everything is yours. Including you getting tied right down and *used* if that's how you want it this time."

This time — 

*This* time — 

Uncle Kitos growls and bites Porthos's ear. "There'll be other chances, lad. Other chances for you to have *everything* you want." 

Porthos croons and just — 

He *wants* — 

He *aches* — 

And Uncle Reynard *twists* his nipples — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

*Bucks* — 

"Should we choose for you, neveu?" 

Porthos blushes *hard* — 

Tries to remember who he *is* — 

"*Ours*," Daddy says, and *pumps* Porthos's bollocks — 

Porthos *shouts* again — 

"Notre *neveu*," Uncle Reynard says, and rubs and rubs his *calluses* on Porthos's nipples — 

"Please — *please* —" 

"Our *boy*," Uncle Kitos says, and strokes Porthos's cock fast, so fast, so — so hot and fast and sweet — 

Porthos is panting and bucking and — 

Throwing his *head* back — 

"Good boy —" 

"— rest your head right —" 

"— take it, son —" 

"— c'est beau, c'est si beau —" 

"— spend for us?" 

"— all *over* your Daddy?" 

"— lick it *up*, neveu —" 

"— boys. Mm. Good boys clean their *messes*," Uncle Kitos says, and gives Porthos a hard, hot, *twisting* stroke — 

And Reynard pinches Porthos's nipples so *hard* — 

And Daddy leans in — "Porthos. My boy. My beautiful boy... give it to me. Give me every last *drop* of your pleasure. Get me *dirty*. Let me *smell* it. Let me —" 

And Porthos wants to say yes, means to say *yes*, but all that comes out is a desperate *howl* — 

"*Good* boy —" 

Howl after howl as he arches up — 

As everything in his body ignites and goes *wild*, goes mad, goes — 

But there's a silence, a moment's *silence* when he's between gasps, between *howls*, and he can hear *Daddy* gasp — 

"That's right, all *over* you, Fearless —" 

"Oh — oh, *fuck* — I'm so *hard* —" 

And then Porthos is howling again, spurting *more* — 

Howling into Uncle Kitos's mouth and being pushed down onto his back and that's — 

That's not — 

He croons desperately, needily — 

He reaches — 

Daddy catches his hands and licks them. "What's wrong, son. Tell us what's wrong." 

And for long moments the words are too hard, too big, too *much* — 

"It's all right, lad," Uncle Kitos says, low and gentle. "You can show us." 

And Porthos is moaning in relief as he sits up, as he pushes *Daddy* down onto his back — 

Daddy *rumbles* — "What's this, then...?" 

Porthos licks the spend from his chest and belly. 

Porthos — licks him clean. 

He can't make himself do it slow — he has to clean his *Daddy* — but hopefully it feels good — 

Daddy's belly is jumping beneath him — 

*He's* crooning — 

His hands are in Porthos's hair — 

"Son — son..." He growls and strokes all over Porthos's face and hair — "My *son* —" 

Uncle Kitos booms laughter. "He certainly needs as much spend as you do, Fearless." 

"Ah, oui, I see the family resemblance," Uncle Reynard says, and strokes down over Porthos's back and arse. 

Porthos shivers and gets the last few spatters near the bowl of Daddy's left hip — and then he looks up. 

Daddy looks stunned. Hungry. *Needy* — and then he narrows his eyes. "Is it what you needed, son?" 

"Yeah —" 

"Or do you need more." 

Porthos *pants* — 

*Blushes* again — 

Daddy's big, weird cock *jerks* right under Porthos's *chin* — 

And, when Porthos looks around, Uncle Kitos is lying on his side and *stroking* his own huge cock, and Uncle Reynard is kneeling and smiling hotly and *offering* his cock, his *long* cock — 

And all of this... is something he can have. 

"Wrong, son," Daddy says, sitting up and turning Porthos to face him. "All of it is *yours*. There's a difference." 

"I — I'm not —" 

"You are. And we've needed you," Daddy says, and — his voice isn't hard. 

His voice is low and hungry and needy and *wild*, so bloody *wild* — "Daddy —" 

"We've *needed* you!" 

And there's a part of Porthos which had honestly thought he was already dropped, already on the bloody *floor*. 

The rest of him knew, down deep, that there was always farther you could go. 

Always farther he *would* go — for the right man. "Daddy. I. Please give me orders. Please tell me what to *do*." 

Daddy pushes his hand into Porthos's hair and *grips*. "Everything to do?" 

"Yeah — yeah, please —" 

"Everything to do for *all* of us?" 

"Please!" 

Daddy licks his lips — 

Croons — 

"Get up here and kiss me with that spend in your mouth —" 

"*Yes*, Daddy —" 

"Do you want to get fucked tonight?"

Porthos grunts and doesn't stop, doesn't pause, doesn't — "I want what you say, I want —" 

"You want to be put right down and —" Daddy growls. "All right, son. I'll take care of you," he says, and pulls Porthos into a *shallow* kiss — 

"Mm —" 

"*We'll* take care of you. We won't let our boy down." 

"No, Daddy, I know, I know, please —" 

And Daddy kisses him hard, deep — 

Daddy gives him the *dog's* tongue — 

Daddy licks and *tastes* him, *takes* him — and pulls back. 

"Daddy —" 

"Shh, you need to use your mouth for other things right now," Daddy says, and smiles at him so *warmly*. 

"Oh — *please*."

Daddy licks his lips — and then looks to Porthos's Uncles. "Which of you can hold out longer?" 

Uncle Reynard laughs ruefully. "I went twice last night, meneur. Daniele was not quite up for that with notre verrat." 

Uncle Kitos laughs, too — "We'll all be *very* happy when Marie-Angelique is over her monthlies troubles. Or is at least back to wanting to get over them with our *help*." 

Daddy snickers — and stops. And blinks. "Son..." 

"Yes, Daddy?" 

"Do Olivier and Thomas have another sibling?"

His Uncles are *coughing*, but — well. Porthos isn't doing much better. "Uh. No, Daddy. Not that I know of —" 

"But it's *different* on your sphere — and she was like this in the early days of her pregnancies with Olivier and Thomas — I have to go sniff her. And bite her." 

"Uh. Right now, Daddy?"

"No," Daddy says, and *hauls* Porthos into — a nuzzle, not a kiss. A hard nuzzle with nips and licks and *bites* — 

"Oh — mm — yeah, please —" 

And then he pulls back with a low, pleased rumble. "You're such a good boy. Such a good, *delicious* boy..." 

"Please —" 

"You're going to suck your Uncle Kitos off while you play with your Uncle Reynard's cock a little —" 

"*Dieu* —" 

"*Fuck*, Fearless —" 

"Oh, *fuck*, Daddy — I — *yes* —" 

"And I? Am going to eat your perfect arse." 

Porthos *croons* — 

Stretches and strains to lick Daddy's *face* — 

He just — 

He has to *lick* — 

He should want to *kiss* — 

"Oh, son... oh, *son*." And Daddy growls and bites his *throat* — 

Porthos croons and shakes — 

But Daddy pulls back almost immediately — 

"*Please* —" 

"Shh. You're *going* to need to lick and nip and nuzzle, rather than kiss. You're growing into your power, son — and growing into your power as a *shifter*." 

Porthos *stares*. 

Daddy licks his lips. "You're so beautiful, son. You're so — from the first moment I *saw* you, I knew that you were *important*, and I — " He growls. "But we don't have to think about serious things now. Do we, lads." 

"Non, non —" 

"Not a bit of it, Fearless!" 

Daddy grins hungrily and then licks a slow, slick path from the corner of Porthos's mouth to his ear. "Never doubt that we want exactly this," he says, and he and Porthos's Uncles are moving — 

Pushing Porthos *down* — 

"Never doubt that we want *you*, neveu..." 

"*Every* way we can have you," Uncle Kitos says, and settles on his knees in front of Porthos. 

Uncle Reynard is right next to him — 

They both seem so much *bigger* this way — 

"Just the way we should, oui?" And Uncle Reynard has a hand in Porthos's hair again — 

Uncle Reynard is pulling him *in* to where Uncle Kitos is *gripping* his cock — 

"You. You have a beautiful mouth, lad..." 

Porthos croons. 

He's had men say that — and say it that *hungrily* — when he was a boy, but not since he got his size. He — 

He'd missed it. 

He — 

"Why is this? Mm?" And Uncle Reynard *drags* Porthos's face along Kitos's cock — drags his *nose* and *mouth* — "You are just a young boy..." 

"I — I..." 

"Aren't you, lad?" 

And Daddy grips his hips. "He might just be *our* boy. That's different."

Porthos shivers and sighs — 

"Ah, oui. C'est vrai. Mais..." 

"He *can* be anything he wants to be," Uncle Kitos says, and bends his cock down, strokes Porthos's mouth with the tip over and over and — 

"He can be everything we *tell* him to be. Oui?" 

"*Yes*," Daddy says, growling and *spreading* him — 

Porthos gasps — 

Uncle Kitos pushes in, just a little — "That's it, that's it..." 

"Mm — *mmph* —" 

"We have to take care of our boy, though," Daddy says, and *licks* him, licks his whole *cleft* — 

"MM —" 

"Such a delicious — mmmrrm. We have to give him — just what he needs." 

Uncle Kitos growls and pushes *deeper* — "Agreed." 

"Oui. *Agreed*," Uncle Reynard says, and takes Porthos's hand in his own — 

Moves it to *his* cock — 

Porthos closes his eyes and pets, caresses, *examines* and *feels* — 

And Uncle Reynard laughs. "Oh, *neveu*. You must do that to notre *meneur's* cock. Stroke me. *Stroke* me." 

"And take more," Uncle Kitos says — 

"And *take* more," Daddy says, and they push in — 

They — 

They push in *together*, and Daddy's tongue is so long, so slick, so — 

It goes so *deep* — 

And Kitos doesn't pause before he's in Porthos's *throat* — 

Porthos has to gulp and *take* — 

Porthos isn't doing a good *job* stroking Reynard's cock — 

Uncle Reynard laughs so *musically* — "Peut être... mon neveu needs to be *taught*," he says, and *thrusts* into Porthos's hand. 

Porthos squeezes reflexively — 

Just — 

"Ah, oui! Do *this*, neveu," and Uncle Reynard and strokes his hair, pets him, *rewards* him — 

Porthos blushes — 

Squeezes again — 

Tries to — to *concentrate* — 

But Uncle Kitos strokes Porthos's mouth with his huge, rough fingers — 

Porthos can't help but *use* his lips more, *mouth* Uncle Kitos, give him more, *better* — 

He's so *big* — 

He's so delicious and *big* — 

And he can stroke Uncle Reynard while squeezing, he can give him that, *do* that — 

Uncle Reynard is panting — 

Twining the fingers of his other hand with Porthos's own — 

"*Fuck*," Uncle Kitos says, laughing breathlessly and *rolling* his hips in, *in* — "You'd better start distracting him, Fearless — he's getting downright professional over here." 

Daddy laughs into his *arse* — 

*Snickers* into — 

Porthos gasps — 

Coughs and squirms and — 

"Oh, non, neveu, be still, be still," Uncle Reynard says, and strokes him, eases him — 

"That's right, lad. You can take it," Uncle Kitos says, and stops thrusting, stops doing anything but *resting* his massive cock in Porthos's throat, and — 

And Porthos can be good for them, he can be — 

(You're perfect, son...) 

Porthos groans in his *chest*. Just — 

That voice in his *soul* while Daddy is right *there* — 

(Here, son...?) And Daddy *kisses* Porthos's hole so softly, so — 

Porthos whines in his nose — 

Sweats and *shakes* — 

"Oh, that's got it, Fearless..." 

Uncle Reynard laughs. "His hand is shaking again. I remember the way *yours* did just before you gripped me *hard*, meneur..." 

Daddy *growls* into Porthos's arse — 

Porthos jerks and sucks Uncle Kitos *hard* — 

Uncle Kitos grunts and *grinds* in — 

*In* — 

"Fuck — fuck, Fearless, *warn* a bloke —" 

(No,) Daddy says, and starts *sucking* kisses to Porthos's hole — 

Porthos *claws* at the duvet, and he can't — 

He can't — 

"What — what can't you do, lad, mm? You can have anything you *want*," Uncle Kitos says, and strokes Porthos's *cheek*, but — 

But Porthos has to — 

Porthos fucks himself on Uncle Kitos's cock, rises up until just the fat, mushrooming head is in his mouth and sucks, slurps — 

"*Unh* —" 

Goes down, takes him, *gulps* him *in* — 

"Oh, *fuck*, lad —" 

Takes him all the way *in* and then fucks himself *hard*, just — 

Just *hard* — 

And he can't — 

He can't bloody *stop* — 

Please don't make him *stop* — 

"We will *not*, neveu," Uncle Reynard says, and guides him in a *vicious* stroke of his cock, a *mean* stroke — 

Porthos squeezes *firmly* — 

"Merde, *oui* —" And Uncle Reynard makes him squeeze *harder* — 

He cries out and shudders — 

Bucks up into their twined hands — 

And then Daddy sucks a hard, dirty, *wet* kiss to Porthos's hole — 

Shoves his tongue *deep* — 

Porthos's jaw drops — 

He can't *see* for a moment — 

"Oh, lad, lad, we know *exactly* what he's doing to you —" 

"Ah, oui — oui — he will take you *apart* —" 

"That he *will*," Uncle Kitos says, laughing low and hard. "But close your *mouth*." 

Porthos groans and obeys —

He has to *obey* — 

(Good boy...) 

He groans so — so *needily* — 

He can't *think* — 

He has to do *better* — 

"Better than — than perfect, neveu...?" And Uncle Reynard laughs musically again, *fucks* their twined hands — 

He's so slick — 

Porthos wants to *taste* — 

"But you're tasting *me* now, lad," Uncle Kitos says, and he's laughing breathlessly — 

They're so happy — 

He has to *keep* them happy — 

(I'm happy, too, son...) And Daddy hums against his hole *while* he fucks it with his tongue — 

Porthos *grunts*, cock jerking — 

He's leaking slick all over the bed — 

He can't — 

He has to keep swallowing, keep squeezing, keep sucking and stroking and — 

(Just give in, son...) 

"That's right, lad. Just — just let us have you," Uncle Kitos says, and starts fucking in hard again, slow and *hard* — 

"Let us make you *ours*," Uncle Reynard says, and *works* Porthos's hand on his cock — 

His long, slick cock — 

*Uses* Porthos's hand — 

(Is that what we should do, son...? Use you?) 

And Porthos's eyes are wide, he — 

He's staring, his heart is pounding, he can't — 

(Don't fight. Don't be frightened.) 

"Ah, oui. It is an *easy* question, neveu. If you let it be." 

And Uncle Kitos is still petting him, still *fucking* him — 

One slow, rough thrust after *another* — 

Daddy is fucking his arse just the same *way*, and it's — so good.

So *good* — 

(Then let yourself feel it, son. Sink right down into it.)

I. I have to — 

(You don't have to do anything but obey us, son.) 

Porthos's cock *spasms* — 

He wants — 

He *wants* — 

(You want more orders... mm. Well, then. Lads?) 

"We can work with that, Fearless!"

"Mais bien sûr..." And Uncle Reynard tightens his grip on Porthos's hair and *yanks* him up until just the head of Uncle Kitos's cock is in his mouth. 

Porthos whines and *pants* — 

*Laps* at the head — 

Nuzzles and *mouths* — 

"Shit, that's beautiful," Uncle Kitos says, and laughs more. "I *sincerely* wish I had the control to take it for longer than this, but..." And he brushes Uncle Reynard's hand aside, gripping Porthos by the hair, himself. "You're going to do just what I say, lad — right up until your Daddy is done eating your arse for the evening. Do you understand?" 

Porthos *nods*. 

Uncle Kitos takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Yeah, you're a good lad. A well-*behaved* lad. Our Amina wouldn't have anything different." 

"Non, non, this is so."

And Daddy starts fucking Porthos's arse in slow, slick, *gentle* motions — 

Porthos shivers and whimpers — 

Flexes open and *quivers* — 

"Oh, we can all feel that..." And Uncle Kitos laughs more. "You're making us very, *very* happy, lad." 

Porthos blushes and *thrills* — 

Uncle Reynard makes a soft noise — 

Uncle Kitos strokes his face with his free hand — 

And Daddy growls into his arse *hungrily*, *whipping* his long tongue once — 

Again — 

*Again*, and Porthos sobs and *shakes* — 

"Shh, lad, shh. You have to focus now. You have to let your Daddy do what he needs to *do*... but you also have to focus. Can you do that for me?" 

Porthos shivers and nods and nods — 

As much as Uncle Kitos is *letting* him — 

"Good lad. Now I'm going to work your beautiful mouth on my cock. I'm going to *make* you take me. Are you ready for that?" 

Porthos moans and just — 

He can do better — 

He can fuck his own mouth and — 

"But that's not your *responsibility*, lad." 

"Ah, non, non. That's for much bigger boys, neveu," Uncle Reynard says, and makes Porthos squeeze him again — 

Pants and moans so *high* — 

"That's *right*," Uncle Kitos says, and his low voice is so breathy, so *hungry*. "You're our little lad..." 

(Our sweet little boy,) Daddy says, and starts *suckling* Porthos's hole — 

Licking in relatively *shallowly* — 

(Our perfect little — oh, son, you don't know how much we've needed you...) 

I — I — 

Porthos moans and goes back to nuzzling Uncle Kitos's cock. He doesn't have words. He only *barely* has *thoughts*. This — this is all — 

(It's what we have for you, son. And it's what you *need*.) 

Porthos grunts and flushes — 

Flushes *deeply* — he's never *had* — 

Nothing has ever gone this deep — 

No one has ever pushed him down so far, offered to *take* him down so far, and he doesn't — 

He doesn't know — 

(It's safe, son,) Daddy says, and kisses Porthos's hole like a mouth he wants to make love to for *hours* — 

Porthos sobs and wants to drop, wants to crawl, wants to *give* — 

(Everything is safe. We won't let you fall.) 

*Please* — 

(Everything is yours, son. Isn't it, lads.) 

"Everything," Uncle Reynard says, and there's such a warm smile in his voice, such — 

He's making Porthos stroke so *fast* — 

"*Everything*," Uncle Kitos says, and strokes down to the back of Porthos's neck — 

*Squeezes* — 

"Mind your Daddy, now, lad —" 

"Oui — ohn — *oui* —" 

"Mind him, and. Let us fuck you through the *floor*," Uncle Kitos says — *growls*, so low and *harsh* — 

Porthos flushes and flexes *open* again — 

(Oh, son... say yes.)

Porthos groans and kisses Kitos's cock over and over and over again — 

He can't remember why he was *fighting* — 

He can't remember anything *about* it — 

(Then say *yes*,) Daddy says, and shoves *deep* again — 

Porthos *yells* — Yes! Yes, *please*!

(Be ready, son...) 

I will — I *am*! Please *fuck* me!

And Uncle Kitos growls and hauls Porthos *down* — 

All the way *down* — 

Porthos gulps and groans in his chest — 

"That's it — that's it, lad..." And Uncle Kitos is panting as he pulls Porthos back up — 

Up and up — 

"Suck *hard*, lad!" 

Porthos *obeys* — 

Daddy sucks his *rim* — 

Fucks *in* — 

And Uncle Kitos hauls him down again, makes him take, take every inch, every — 

And he's panting, panting so — 

Porthos keeps sucking, keeps — 

And it's so *hard* when Uncle Kitos pulls him off, so — 

He wants to do better, wants to — 

(It's not. Your. Responsibility,) Daddy says, and starts fucking him fast, *fast*, so *dirty* — 

Porthos groans and shudders — 

Squeezes Uncle Reynard too *hard* — 

He *shouts* — 

Laughs *wildly* — 

"Oh, meneur, he is *your* son!" 

(That's *right*, he is. Do that *again*, son...) 

"Merde — fuck — *oui* — ah, *oui* —" 

And Uncle Kitos is working his head faster now, so much *faster*, and he can't think — 

There's no *room* to think about anything but how perfect it feels, how right, how *perfect*. Porthos sucks and shivers, swallows every time Uncle Kitos forces him down — 

Oh, all the way *down* — 

He's shivering so *much* — 

And Uncle Reynard's cock is *jerking* in their hands — 

And Daddy is holding Porthos's arse spread so *wide* — 

Pulling back to *nuzzle* with lips and teeth and soft *beard* — 

Porthos wants to pant and *beg* — 

(You're begging in here, son...) 

Oh, Daddy — 

(It's beautiful. Everything *about* you is beautiful...) 

Please — 

(I'm going to give you a finger, son —) 

*Please*! 

(Shh. Focus on taking your Uncles' cocks.) 

And just the sound of that — 

The *fact* of that — 

It makes Porthos feel so small, so — 

So — 

Somehow, all of him is held between these three men. All of him is what can be *used* by these three men, what can be taken and held down and marked and just — 

Everything good. 

Everything he's always wanted for his brothers and never thought he *could* have for *himself* and — 

And Uncle Kitos is *growling* and working Porthos's head faster, so much *faster* — 

And Uncle Reynard is *pumping* into their twined hands — 

Forcing Porthos to squeeze so *hard* — 

"You — you are *ours*," Uncle Reynard says — 

All but *snarls* — 

And Daddy is growling under his *breath* — 

*Gripping* Porthos's arse — 

Dragging his *teeth* over Porthos's hole — 

Porthos wants to *scream* — 

(I *hear* you, son. We hear *everything*, and it's so *beautiful*. Here,) Daddy says, and pulls back — 

Porthos *shudders* — but Daddy *presses* two hot, rough fingers against his hole right away and holds them there — 

*Rubs* them there while Porthos flexes and clenches and flexes open *again* — 

Daddy is sucking and slurping at *something* — no, it's his finger, his — 

Oh... 

Porthos is quivering again, *needing*, needing so *much*, and Daddy is still *rubbing* him — 

"Do not *tease* him, meneur!" 

And Daddy pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a *filthy* sound. "*Never*," he says, and moves his other fingers. "Here, son. Here you are," he says, and pushes in with *two* — 

Porthos clenches *tight* — 

"*Open*." 

Porthos flushes and *jerks* — 

His cock is spasming again and again and — 

Daddy smacks his *arse* — 

Porthos *flexes* open — 

"Perfect," Daddy says, and pushes deeper, deeper, so — 

His fingers are so *thick* — 

"You like that, don't you, son..." 

Porthos's belly drops, just — 

He wants to nod — 

He wants to *beg* — 

Uncle Kitos is fucking him so fast, so — 

So hard and *fast* — 

Daddy rumbles. "You like that, too. And we can hear you begging just fine. Can't we, lads?" 

Uncle Kitos *snarls* — 

Uncle Reynard laughs *madly* — "We can hear — hear *everything*, neveu — ohn — I am *close* —" 

"*Don't* spend," Daddy says, and *crooks* his fingers — 

Porthos clenches and *bucks* — 

His cock is spasming *violently* — 

It feels like it's *spitting* slick — 

"That's because it is, son," Daddy says *cheerfully* — 

"*Meneur* —" 

"Reynard. Our boy needs your *cock*." 

"*Merde*," Uncle Reynard says and makes Porthos squeeze him what must be *painfully* — "Merde, merde, *merde* — ah. Fuck — there. I can think." 

Daddy laughs hard. "Good. Now come back here and play with *Porthos's* cock." 

"Ah, oui...? May I play with my mouth...?" 

"Absolutely not," Daddy says, and crooks *again* — 

Porthos *writhes* — 

"Oh — oh, *meneur* —" 

"When you suck my son off, Reynard? I want *everyone* in a position that will allow me to see absolutely *everything*." 

"F-*fuck*, Fearless!" And Uncle Kitos *booms* laughter — 

*Slams* in so — 

He's forcing Porthos back on Daddy's *fingers* — 

It's so *hard* — 

So *incredible* — 

Daddy's being *gentle* with his fingers, but they're just so thick, so long and thick and *rough* — 

It doesn't *matter* —

It's so hot and perfect and — 

Fuck, Porthos keeps clenching, keeps — 

Keeps jerking and trying *not* to move too much, trying — 

Porthos's *eyes* are rolling back in his head, and he just wants more, so much more, so much *more* — 

"Then that's what you will *have*, neveu," Uncle Reynard says, and cups Porthos's bollocks with one hand and his cock with the other, and Porthos hadn't even noticed him *moving* — 

Hadn't noticed that his *own* sticky hand was no longer around anything more interesting than a handful of *duvet* — 

Daddy laughs low and *filthy* — and *crooks* — 

Porthos *shakes* — 

Swallows *hard* — 

"*Fuck*," Uncle Kitos says, and *grinds* in — 

Holds Porthos's head *still* — 

Grinds and grinds and there's so much hair, and Uncle Kitos is so thick in his *throat*, and Porthos hadn't had time to get air — 

"You don't need air, son." 

"Non, non, you need nothing but what we *give* you," Uncle Reynard says, and starts tossing him *off* — 

Porthos groans and spasms and spasms and *clenches* — 

And Daddy starts *fucking* him with his fingers, slow and so — 

So — 

It's not hard. It's not — 

But Porthos can feel everything, everything about it, every — 

Every *hairsbreadth* of Daddy's fingers has a *texture*, and all of those textures have been turned to driving Porthos *mad*.

"Is that so, son...?" 

He's never *had* this — 

It's never been *like* this — 

It's never been this *good*, and Uncle Reynard is using all of Porthos's slick on Porthos's cock; his hand is *gliding* along Porthos's length; it's so — 

It's so sweet and good and Porthos can't help fucking into it, taking it, taking his *Uncle* while Uncle Kitos *reams* him, has him, makes him *his* — 

"*Yes*," Uncle Kitos says, and his big hand is on the back of Porthos's head, and he's holding on so tightly, and he feels so good, so good, so — 

Porthos needs to taste his spend so *badly* — 

"HNH —" 

"That's got it," Daddy says — 

"Ah, oui, oui," Uncle Reynard says — 

And Uncle Kitos is spending, just like that.

Uncle Kitos is filling Porthos's *mouth* — 

He's pulled back enough that all of it lands *in* Porthos's *mouth*, and — 

And Porthos is moaning, lapping, suckling and slurping, lapping *more* — 

"Oh — oh, *fuck*, lad —" And Uncle Kitos pants and fucks in *shallowly* as his cock continues to jerk — 

Porthos laps and laps and laps — 

He can't stop — 

He has to take *everything* — 

"Yes, you do, son. You're a good boy," Daddy says, and *rocks* his fingers — 

"We have to *give* you everything," Uncle Reynard says, and squeezes Porthos's bollocks *hard* — 

Porthos's *mouth* falls open — 

Uncle Kitos groans — "What did you berks do to him this time?" 

Daddy laughs — 

And Uncle Reynard sucks his teeth. "Notre neveu, he is not used to such rough caresses for his beautiful sac..." 

"That wasn't a *caress*, Reynard," Daddy says, and laughs harder — 

Porthos groans and *sweats* — 

"Is fox-face still *doing* it?" 

"Did my son close his mouth yet?" 

"*No*!"

"Then he's still doing it." 

"Fox-face, you *arse* —" 

Uncle Reynard laughs hard, laughs beautifully, laughs *musically* — and keeps tossing Porthos off, keeps — 

Starts *pumping* Porthos's bollocks *while* tossing Porthos off, and Porthos can't — 

He's panting — 

Panting around Uncle Kitos's *cock* — 

Daddy's fingers are still *working* inside him — 

Making him feel so — not open. Not that. 

Not *yet*. 

But like he could *be* open... really soon. 

"Oh, lad," Uncle Kitos says, and pulls out — 

"Mm — wait — please —" 

"Shh," Uncle Kitos says. "It's not *my* turn anymore," he says, tilting Porthos's head up so Porthos can see his twinkling eyes. 

Porthos *moans* — 

He needs so *much* — 

Daddy rumbles. "Yes, you *do*, son. And you're going to get *all* of it. Toss me the oil, brother." 

Porthos clenches *hard* — 

*Croons* — 

And Uncle Kitos gives Porthos his *thumb* to suck while he reaches for the oil. 

It's — 

It's so — 

Porthos blushes and suckles like a child. 

And Daddy is growling behind him, low and *constant* — 

And Uncle Reynard is working Porthos's tackle so — 

His bollocks are *all* the way drawn up, and he could spend at any *moment* and — 

"Should we make you wait, neveu? Mm? Are you that kind of boy?" 

And Porthos can *feel* them all *pausing* for that question — 

Looking at him — 

Looking *into* him — 

Porthos shivers, and — he doesn't — 

Daddy *stops* growling. "I don't think our boy has done that before..." 

"Mm." And Uncle Kitos strokes over Porthos's sweaty hair with his other hand. "Should he really be doing it now, then...?" 

Daddy makes a thoughtful noise and rocks his fingers inside Porthos again — 

Again — 

Porthos whimpers — 

Suckles and tries not to *beg* for more, for everything, for everything they *want* to do to him — 

Uncle Reynard squeezes Porthos's cock and bollocks at once — 

Porthos *sobs* — 

Sweats and — he can't — 

He's fucking into Reynard's fist — 

He's shoving himself back onto Daddy's fingers — 

Uncle Reynard makes an *appreciative* noise. "Notre neveu needs to *please*, meneur..." 

Daddy growls again and *crooks* — 

Porthos sobs and *yips* around Uncle Kitos's thumb — 

And Uncle Kitos massages his scalp and sighs. "Our lad pleases just by... just by giving himself over..." 

"That's *right*," Daddy says, and *smacks* Porthos's hip — 

Porthos jerks and nearly *spends* — 

He can't — 

He has to *control* — 

"No, you *don't*," Daddy says, and smacks him *again* — 

Porthos *barks* and spasms in Reynard's hand — 

"Oh, neveu..." And Uncle Reynard's voice is filled with wondering *hunger*. "Give us your *pleasure*." 

"Gives us *all* of it, lad," Uncle Kitos says, and strokes Porthos's lips with his slick thumb — 

"You don't have any *choices* here," Daddy says, and smacks him again, again, *again* — 

Porthos *howls* — 

He's *bucking* into Uncle Reynard's hand — 

*Shoving* himself back onto Daddy's fingers — 

It's so — 

So hard, so hot — 

He wants to be *spanked* — 

He wants his Daddy to — 

"Oh, *son*," Daddy says, crooking his fingers again and smacking Porthos's *arse* — 

Porthos howls *again* — 

Daddy is alternating *cheeks* — 

Porthos lifts his arse and tries to beg, tries to give, tries to *take* — 

"Oh, that's *perfect*, lad," Uncle Kitos says, and wipes tears from Porthos's cheeks — 

Makes Porthos *taste* — 

Porthos laps and laps — 

"Mm, neveu... I cannot *wait* until your mouth is on *my* cock," Uncle Reynard says, and *drags* his thumb-callus over and over the head of Porthos's cock as he *pumps* Porthos's bollocks, and Porthos can't stop yipping, can't stop crooning, can't stop — 

"You're begging so prettily in the space we share, son... you were *made* for this," Daddy says, and smacks his arse harder, *harder* — 

Yes — *yes* — 

"You were made for *us*, lad..." 

Oh — yes — 

"— vrai, you were always *meant* —" 

"— *ours*, always —" 

"— give *over*, lad, give us —" 

"— *need* you! Oh, son, oh, son —"

"— *all* need you —" 

"— *never* let you go, neveu —" 

"— fuck you so *hard*, son — just as soon as you spend," Daddy says, and crooks again, again — 

Over and over again, and Porthos is yipping helplessly, drooling, lapping at Uncle Kitos's fingers — 

He can't see — 

He can't *breathe* properly — 

"Oh, lad..." 

"Do you need it to be an order, son? Is that what — no, it is. I *know* it is," Daddy says, and growls *sharp*, rocking his fingers in and out so *fast* — 

Porthos *croons* — 

Uncle Reynard drags the tip of his *thumbnail* up the underside of Porthos's cock — 

Porthos *chokes* on a howl — 

Stiffens — 

Uncle Reynard is still — 

Still *dragging* — 

And Daddy thrusts *deep* with his fingers, his thick *fingers* — "*Spend*."

Porthos *croaks* a desperate noise — 

Stiffens *more* — 

"That's right, lad, give it to us, give us —" 

"*Everything*," Uncle Reynard says, and pumps Porthos's balls so viciously, so — 

He has to — 

He has to do what his Daddy and Uncles *say* — 

"That's *right*, son. Now hurry up and spend so I can smell it again, *taste* it on the air and your Uncle's fingers, rub it all over my *muzzle* —" 

And Porthos clenches and howls again, howls as he spurts — 

He's so hot all *over* — 

He's tensed and sweating and spurting so — 

So *much* — 

"Oh, son, *yes*, do it —" 

"— si beau, si *beau* — all over my *hands* —"

And Porthos is writhing, fucking, *needing* — 

He can't stop *needing* — 

"How's this, son?" And Daddy smacks him again — 

Porthos chokes on a *bark* and *spurts* again — 

*Again* — 

Uncle Reynard is *milking* him so *expertly* — 

Porthos shivers like a horse and spurts *again* — and slumps, panting. 

"*Look* at you, lad, so beautiful and perfect right where we put you..." 

"Ah, oui, he is so loose and ready —" 

Daddy snarls — "Give me your *fingers*, Reynard — *mm* —"

And then there are wet sounds, sucking and suckling and humming and *growling* sounds — 

"Meneur, I will need those fingers *back*!"

Uncle Kitos booms a laugh and pets Porthos, strokes Porthos and urges him to lower his head to his thigh. "Stop complaining and *feed* Fearless that spend! Our lad drank up his usual portion — now don't make vulgar gestures like that, Fearless. You've a young, impressionable boy here!" 

Porthos blushes and kisses Uncle Kitos's thigh. Just — 

"Oh..." 

He kisses Uncle Kitos a few times, and then over and over, because he needs to, because those big hands mean so much — 

That big voice — 

That big *everything*, including all the affection and care Porthos can *feel*.

Uncle Kitos makes a soft — for him — sound, and pets Porthos more firmly. "That's because you're ours, lad." 

"Mm, oui. *All* ours," Uncle Reynard says, and drags the fingertips of his free hand up along Porthos's back — 

Down again — 

Over and around in lazy but *restless* patterns — 

Porthos shivers and lifts his head — 

"Mm?" And then Uncle Kitos thunders another laugh. "Did you *need* something, fox-face?" 

"I *need* notre meneur to give my *fingers* back so that I can —" And then Uncle Reynard *grunts* — "Mais... I can stay here, bien sûr." 

Uncle Kitos laughs harder — "What you're missing, lad — your Daddy has a *threatening* grip on fox-face's bollocks."

Porthos clenches around Daddy's fingers — 

Blushes because — 

Because that was obvious, so — 

"Hey, now, what's that, lad?" And Uncle Kitos pets him more — 

Uncle *Reynard* pets him and makes soft, soothing noises — 

And Daddy slurps his way off Uncle Reynard's fingers — 

Uncle Reynard *gasps* — 

And then starts gasping over and over — 

Uncle Kitos laughs more — "Your Daddy just — just *released* fox-face's bollocks — were you *crushing* them, Fearless?" 

"A little," Daddy says, and smacks Porthos's arse again — 

Porthos yips and blushes more *deeply* — 

"Never doubt that we love your blushes, son," Daddy says, and smacks him *harder* — 

Porthos *clenches* again — 

Croons — 

Pants and — "Daddy — D-Daddy — I —" And then Porthos is *groaning*, because Daddy is rocking his fingers again —

And Uncle Reynard rubs the small of Porthos's back. "What is it, mm? What do you need, neveu?" 

*Everything* — 

Fuck — 

Fuck, fuck — 

"Shh, lad, that was the *right* answer," Uncle Kitos says, pushing his big fingers through Porthos's hair one more time before shuffling back — 

Moving aside so that Uncle *Reynard* can take his *place* — 

"That will *always* be the right answer, neveu," Uncle Reynard says, cupping Porthos's face and grinning down into his eyes. 

*His* eyes are hot, wild — wide and *full* — 

"J'ai *faim*, neveu," he says, and *offers* his cock. "You see?" 

Porthos pants and licks his lips — 

*Clenches* again — 

"Please — please, let me —" 

"Oui," Uncle Reynard says, and rests his cock on Porthos's lower lip. "Take me *in*, neveu. Do not wait, and use your tongue *much*." 

Porthos croons and nods and takes, just *takes* — 

Gulps and *takes* — 

"Ah, *fuck* — your *tongue*, neveu!" 

Porthos nods and laps and laps and rubs with the flat of his tongue and tries to *stretch* his tongue — 

And *yips* because his tongue *grows* — 

His Daddy and Uncles are laughing — 

He can't figure out what to *do* with his tongue — 

It's *huge* in his mouth — he tries to lick and it *whips* — 

"Mais — mm — mais — ah, *merde* —" 

Fuck — 

"It feels *good* to Reynard, son. Trust us." 

"That's right, lad," Uncle Kitos says, and massages the back of Porthos's neck while stroking Porthos's back. "We're *all* going to want a turn with that tongue." 

"I've never *had* a shifted tongue on me, son..." 

Porthos's cock jerks — 

Thickens and stiffens up *again* —

And Daddy rumbles low and filthy. "*Good* boy. Now keep practicing with that tongue while I get your arse situated," he says, and starts pulling *out*, slowly and gently and — 

He doesn't *want* his Daddy to pull out —

Uncle Kitos booms a laugh. "Not to worry, lad — he's not going to leave you empty for long!"

"Oh — *nnh* — non, non, not — *ohn* — only — *merde* — keep *doing* that!" 

Uncle Kitos laughs more and pets Porthos, caresses him everywhere he can reach — 

He's so *big* — 

"That's right, lad. I'm huge and I'm *yours*. Now keep driving fox-face up a tree — we *like* him that way." 

Yes — oh, *yes* — 

And Daddy leans in and kisses the small of Porthos's back *as* he pulls his fingers all the way out — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"Not long, son. Not *long*." 

Anything — please — 

"*Everything* is what you said, lad, and that's what you're going to *get*," Uncle Kitos says, and passes Daddy a linen — 

"Thank you kindly, brother," Daddy says, and smacks Porthos's arse hard — 

Smacks it three times *fast* — 

Porthos *croons* around Uncle Reynard's cock, nodding and lapping sloppily, giving *in* to the fact that his tongue is massive, long, *willful* — 

It wants to move, to bend, to *curl* in such strange and near-liquid ways, and he has to let it, *has* to, because every time it does — 

Every time Porthos *surrenders* — 

Uncle Reynard *moans* — 

Or gasps, or *grips* at Porthos's hair, or thrusts in hard — *sharp* — 

Or fucks him fast and dirty for *several* thrusts before pausing to pant and shake — 

Groan — 

*Yank* Porthos's hair — 

Porthos is crooning *more* — 

Uncle Reynard's slick is dripping down his *throat* — 

And then Daddy pushes in with two *slick* fingers, two — 

Two *dripping* fingers, and it's not slow, and it's not — 

And Porthos realizes how slow Daddy had been before this moment, how — 

He doesn't have to be slow, at all. 

Not now. 

"No. I. *Don't*," Daddy says, and crooks up *hard* — 

Porthos *barks* around Uncle Reynard's cock — 

"Oui!" 

"Good *lad* —" 

"That's good, son, that's *good*," Daddy says, and starts fucking him fast and hard and — oh — 

Oh, fuck, it's so — 

He's still pressing *up* with his fingers, dragging them against Porthos's pleasure-button with every thrust, every push — 

So — 

So *hard*, so *deep* — 

Porthos clenches — 

"I'm going to fuck you harder every time you do that, son," Daddy says *conversationally*. "Now that I *can*." And he starts *pounding* Porthos — 

Porthos gasps through his nose — 

His cock is jerking — 

He's leaking so much *slick* again and he can't — 

He's so *hard* — 

Daddy *spreads* his two fingers — 

Porthos whines and sucks *hard* — 

Uncle Reynard *bucks* — 

Porthos gulps and *shakes* — 

"Let me help with that," Uncle Kitos says, and his big hands are on Porthos's cock and bollocks, rubbing and squeezing and *massaging* — 

Not stroking — 

"Not *yet*," Uncle Kitos says, and laughs so happily, so — 

Porthos croons and croons and flexes *open* — 

"There you are, son," Daddy says, and eases his thrusts — but doesn't slow down. 

Doesn't — 

It's so *fast*, and Porthos's hole is quivering, *wanting* — 

He wants to be fucked so *badly* — 

He wants *all* of them to fuck him — 

Uncle Reynard shouts and *slams* into his mouth — 

Fucks his face so hard — 

So hard and *dirty*, and the thrusts are *long*, but still so good, so sleek, so *fast* — 

Porthos can't stop *groaning* — 

Not — 

Not even to hear the things Daddy and Uncle Kitos are saying. He knows it's encouragement, knows it's *good* — 

But he has to groan, and slurp, and lap like the dog he's becoming — 

He has to gulp and drool and nod and let his croons get chopped to messy pieces when Uncle Reynard grips his face — 

Holds him *still* — 

"*Neveu* —" 

And now he's rutting more than anything else, shoving in and in and *in*, and Daddy and Uncle Kitos have slowed down — 

They're letting Porthos concentrate — 

They're letting Porthos *take* — 

(It's all yours, son.) 

I love you, Daddy!

Daddy growls like the end of the *world* — 

Fucks him *harder* again —

"Easy, Fearless, *easy* —" 

And Uncle Reynard goes rigid and gasps — 

Gasps again and laughs like a *madman* as his cock spasms and spasms and he spurts down Porthos's *throat*. 

"Well, all right, *don't* go easy, then. Not on fox-face, anyway."

Uncle Reynard laughs more and strokes through Porthos's hair with shaking fingers as he spurts more — 

Fucks into his own *mess* as Porthos swallows and swallows — 

And Daddy is still growling, still — 

Had Porthos done wrong?

Daddy's growl cuts off *sharply*, and he stills his fingers — 

"Shit, no, lad —" 

"*Merde*. Non, non, you just, ah..." 

"*Fearless*." 

Daddy pants — "Son. *Son*," he says, and he sounds *strained*. "I've needed those words. I've needed — for a long time. I wasn't expecting them right then, and I lost a bit of my control. That's all." 

"All right, lad?" 

And Uncle Reynard is still petting him — 

Caressing him all over his face and head and neck — 

"Neveu... *everything* you have done has been perfect tonight. Do not doubt this." 

Porthos croons more — 

Suckles *lightly* — 

Uncle Reynard gasps again and shivers — and tugs Porthos back. 

"I — I — no? And I know I'm not — I'm not *him* —" 

"Not *yet*, neveu," Uncle Reynard says — and then he and Uncle Kitos urge him to lay his cheek down on the duvet — 

Urge him to —

Oh. 

But like this, with his head down and his arse *up* — 

With him *presenting* — 

Daddy is growling again. 

And Uncle Kitos is working Porthos's cock *lazily* — 

And Uncle Reynard is *petting* him. "You *are* him, neveu." 

"I'm not —" 

"You're our boy, lad. You *couldn't* be anyone else." 

"C'est ça. Even if you were not a *Musketeer* —" 

"And we already *know* you can't even imagine *that* —"

"You would *still* belong to notre meneur — and notre *Amina*," Uncle Reynard says, and keeps petting him — 

"That's right, lad," Uncle Kitos says, and keeps *working* him. "She told us all a thousand times she would raise you to be just *like* Fearless, and —" 

"She didn't," Daddy says, and his voice is low, rough, *starved* — 

He crooks his fingers *viciously* — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

Tries to spread *wider* — 

"Stay *still*, son." 

"*Yes*, Daddy, I —" 

"Shh. She raised you better, son. She raised you to be better than me, because you're beautiful, and warm, and giving, and loving, and *honest*, honest right down to the core of you. You don't hide a damned *thing*. You don't *try* to hide a damned thing, even when most men would be trying to crawl behind their horses. You're... oh, son, you're magnificent," Daddy says, and spreads Porthos's *arse* wider. 

"Fuck — fuck — thank you!" 

Daddy rumbles. "You're welcome. Any man would be proud to be your father, son. Any man would be proud to. To have you..." And he growls again —

Crooks his fingers again — 

And *holds* them crooked as he thrusts — 

And *thrusts* — 

Porthos croons *desperately* — 

"Can you take that, son? Mm?" 

"Daddy — Daddy, it's *good*!" 

"Will you be able to take my *cock* after...?" 

Porthos flushes — 

Swallows — 

Daddy rumbles and straightens his fingers. "You haven't been fucked in a good long while..." 

"No, but — but..." 

Daddy keeps thrusting in — 

In so *fast* — 

Porthos can't *clench* — 

He *won't* clench — 

"That's *right*. Now tell me what you need to tell me, son." 

Porthos licks his lips — 

Kisses Uncle Reynard's fingers when he pets Porthos's mouth — 

Uncle Reynard *purrs* — 

Uncle Kitos laughs. "Yeah, just try to resist that."

Uncle Reynard laughs, too. "*Non*," he says, and presses his fingers to Porthos's lips again — 

Porthos kisses him again — 

Again and again — 

And Daddy clears his throat. 

Uncle Kitos thunders an *extremely* loud laugh. "We might not be allowed to play too much longer, fox-face!" 

"Ah, oui, oui, notre chien has *needs*." 

"They always say the littlest dogs have the most energy, you know."

Uncle Reynard nods judiciously — 

Porthos smiles *helplessly* — 

"Right, you berks can go fuck someone *else's* perfect, beautiful son —" 

Porthos *snorts* — 

"Only not, because you don't *deserve* a — you can fuck someone's horrible, ugly, *mean* son —" 

Uncle Kitos laughs so hard he shakes the whole *bed* — 

Uncle Reynard is *wheezing* — 

"And neither of you should *like* it, either —" 

Porthos snickers *hard* — 

Clenches and *gasps* — 

Daddy rumbles. "Is that so, son...?" And he pats Porthos's hip and fucks in dirty and hard and *ruthlessly*. "Open up for me." 

"Unh — *unh* —" 

"You can do it." 

"Yeah — oh, yeah —" And Porthos breathes — 

Just — just evens his *breathing* — 

He can *do* that — 

"That's right, son. Slow it down..." 

And his Uncles are petting him, easing him down *with* Daddy — 

His Uncles are — 

His family is helping him. 

He has a *family*!

Daddy growls *hard* — 

Porthos flexes *open* — 

"Oh, son..." And Daddy fucks in more gently again, but still just as fast, just as — "I'm about to give you another finger..." 

"Please!" 

"First you have to tell me what you *didn't* before. What you wanted to tell me about getting *fucked*." 

"Oh — I use a *toy*, Daddy. I — it's... it's pretty big..." 

Daddy rumbles more. "Is it, now. I already know it's not as big as I am, son," he says, and spreads his fingers again — 

"*Unh* —"

"It's — it's a little thicker than Reynard!" 

His Uncles make *approving* noises — 

Uncle Kitos squeezes him a little *harder* — 

But they don't say anything. They —

They're waiting for Daddy. 

"That's right, son," Daddy says, and rumbles again. "They know I need you now. All of you." 

Porthos moans and wants — 

He tries to lift his arse higher — 

"Oh, son..." Daddy growls and pushes him back down. 

"Nnh — no, Daddy?" 

"You're perfect right there. *Right* there," Daddy says, and rubs the small of Porthos's back — 

Warms him there. 

Porthos moans and takes it — 

Takes everything — 

"That's it," Daddy says, and pulls out *most* of the way — before coming back with three fingers. 

Porthos breathes through it, takes — 

He's taken three of his own fingers — 

This — 

But he can't stop feeling the differences. The position — 

The fact that his Uncles could hold him still at any moment — 

The fact that it's his *Daddy's* fingers opening him up — 

Pushing in so *deep* — 

Porthos croons and tries so hard to stay *still* — 

"You can do it, son. You know I need you right where you are," Daddy says, and *twists* his fingers — 

Porthos *gasps* — 

Daddy pulls out — 

"Please!" 

Daddy *screws* in — 

"Yeah — oh, *fuck* —" 

"Oh, son... oh, son, it is *criminal* that you haven't been getting your ashes hauled on a regular basis." 

Porthos laughs hard — "I think so, too, Daddy —" 

His Uncles snicker and cough and pat him, squeeze him, work his *cock* — 

"Unh — *fuck* — fuck, yes, *yes* —" 

"There's my boy. My sweet and needy little boy..." 

"Oh, God, Daddy, *yours*!" 

Daddy growls and screws his fingers in again — 

"*Yeah*!" 

Again — 

"Please, *yeah*!" 

And then he starts fucking Porthos with those fingers, slow and hard, vicious and nasty and so *raw* — 

"Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

"What do you need, son? Mm?" 

"I need — please open me *faster*." 

Daddy inhales sharply. "Son... but. But I suppose I was being a little bit... leisurely..."

"Oh, just a *little*, Fearless." 

"Un peu seulement." 

Daddy coughs — "I — I may have been waiting for this." 

"A little, yeah." 

"Un peu, un *peu*," Uncle Reynard says, and strokes over Porthos's lips. "You should see notre meneur blush, neveu."

"We can *all* understand taking our time to *savour* you, lad..." 

And *Porthos* is blushing — 

And Uncle Reynard is stroking over Porthos's cheeks — 

They all know. They all know everything — 

Just like family should. Porthos smiles helplessly and feels himself going loose, opening up all over — 

"Good boy, son. Just like that," Daddy says, and starts fucking him hard with his three fingers, starts — 

Starts *screwing* him with every thrust — 

Porthos croons again and stays *open* — 

"That's right... mm. I want everything with you, son. And I was damned well trying to have everything in one *night*." 

Porthos breathes and doesn't lift his *arse* — 

"Stay right where you are, son. Good boy." 

"Yes — yes, Daddy — we can do whatever you *want* —" 

"I want *this*," Daddy says, and screws in again — 

"*Nnh* —" 

Again and *again* — 

"*Please* —" 

"Just keep breathing, son. Keep breathing and know that I'm *hungry* for you." 

Oh — "I'm hungry for *you*, for *all* of you!" 

Daddy growls. "That's as it should be, son. But... don't speak aloud just now. Breathe." 

Porthos *moans* — Sorry, Daddy!

"It's all right, son. I know you feel... passionate," he says, and screws in *hard* — 

Porthos gasps — 

Moans again — 

Tries to even his *breathing* — 

It's so hard while Daddy is fucking him like that, working his *fingers* like that — 

"You didn't use your toy this way, son? Describe it to me..." 

Leather — leather and wood. Leather *over* wood, Daddy!

Daddy growls. "My boy was *hard* on himself, lads." 

"A young lad like this *ought* to be a little softer on himself," Uncle Kitos says, and squeezes Porthos's *bollocks* hard — 

Porthos *croons* — 

"Oui, mais... he has had so little discipline..." 

"He'll get discipline when he gets my *cock*." 

Uncle Reynard laughs *evilly*. "Neveu, you are going to have to be very wicked with notre meneur to make certain he knows when you *need* his firm hand," and he taps Porthos's mouth with his rough fingertips — 

Porthos *kisses* them — 

Begs — 

Needs to *beg* — 

Daddy is still *screwing* in — 

So hard — 

So *good* — 

Porthos's *toes* are curling — 

He wants — 

He wants to — 

"You want to *ride* my hand, son..." 

Yes!

"*Do* it." 

Porthos groans and obeys, *obeys*, and it's awkward, at first — 

He's never had *this* — 

Not like *this* — 

But Daddy finds his rhythm — 

He finds *Daddy's* rhythm — 

And he's *rolling* his arse back into it, into every screwing thrust, so hot, so good, he wants Daddy's *cock* — 

His big and *weird* cock, so animal, so *tender*-looking with the sheath pulled back like that — 

Porthos wants to *taste* — 

"Do you want me to fuck your mouth or your *arse*, son...?" 

Both!

And Daddy and his Uncles laugh — 

Laugh so happily — 

"Oh, son, I — I probably *could* have managed both earlier this evening, but when I wait like this..." Daddy takes a shuddering breath. "You can suck me, son. I *won't* be able to fuck your mouth, though. If I fuck *any* hole right now... I'm damned well going to knot it." 

Porthos's jaw drops — 

"You're going to have to open a bit wider than that, lad —" 

Porthos coughs — 

Clenches and yips and loses his *rhythm* — 

"*Verrat*! You should be *ashamed*." 

"Sorry, sorry," Uncle Kitos says, booming laughter and starting to *stroke* Porthos's cock — 

"UNH —" Porthos *thrusts* into Uncle Kitos's fist — 

Shoves back onto Daddy's screwing fingers — 

Croons and does it again — 

*Sweats* and does it *again* — 

"*That's* got it. You were saying, Fearless?" 

"We have to let him *decide* —" 

"Knot me! Please *knot* me!" 

*Daddy* croons — 

"Meneur, did you think he would say something *else*?" 

"I —" 

"You've been fucking him all *night*, you arse!" 

Daddy *pants* — 

Croons more — 

"I need him. I need him so *badly* — don't lift your *arse*." 

Porthos yips — "I'm sorry, I'm —" 

"Shh," Daddy says, and, "Here..." And he pushes in with a fourth finger, slow and hard and — so sweet. 

So — 

Porthos moans and croons and stays right where he's been put, right — 

Porthos has never been opened so *wide*, but he's also never been so *ready* to be opened so wide. Daddy's fingers go right in. 

Just — 

All the way in. 

Porthos licks his lips and feels them, feels how *stuffed* he is — 

"You're not stuffed yet, son..." 

Porthos grunts and *blushes* again — "Yes — yes, Daddy — I mean — I'll be *quiet* —" 

"No, don't be quiet anymore, son. That part's over," Daddy says, and *thrusts* — 

"UNH — *fuck* —" 

"It's different with four fingers, isn't it," Daddy says, and thrusts *again* — 

"*Yes* — *fuck* — please —" 

"Please what, son?" And he thrusts *again* — 

"Nngh — *ohn* —" 

"Please *what*." And he — *again* — 

"Daddy, I'll *spend* —" 

"Move your *hand*, Kitos." 

"Right you are, Fearless," Uncle Kitos says, and releases him — 

*Steadies* Porthos with his big hands — 

Uncle Reynard is doing the *same* — 

"Thank you — *thank* you," Porthos says, and those were *sobs*, but he can't — 

Daddy keeps *thrusting* — 

It's so *much* — 

"It'll be a little easier when it's my cock, son. A little... different," Daddy says, and thrusts *again* — 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"Just keep taking this for me...." 

"I will! I *will*!" 

"Such a good boy. My perfect *boy*..." 

"NNH — I *need* you, Daddy, I *need* you —" 

"I've never needed anything like I've needed you, son." 

"Oh —" 

"Faster, now." 

"Hnh — hnh hnh HNH —"

"I'm going to fuck you just this hard, son..." 

"Yes — ple— UNGH —" 

"I'm going to give you every last *inch* of myself..." 

"Daddy — please, Daddy —" 

"Now," Daddy says, and when he *stops* thrusting it's just as jarring as the thrusts themselves — more so, because he just keeps not *thrusting*, not pushing, not *working* — 

Porthos whines — 

Whimpers and *whines* — 

And it's a little better when Daddy starts pulling his fingers out — but then he's pulling *out*, and it's all Porthos can do not to follow him, rock back, take him *back* — 

"Shh, shh, son, you'll get everything you need..." 

And his Uncles are petting him again — 

Murmuring softly in their low voices — 

Squeezing him and *steadying* him — 

It's — 

He's their boy. 

He's their boy and they *have* him, and — he can breathe. 

"That's it, son..." 

He keeps breathing until Daddy is out of him, and then — he can't, because he *needs* to hear the sounds of Daddy oiling his cock, making it *ready* —

So *ready* — 

He licks his lips — 

And Daddy is spreading him wide again, just that fast. "Tell me you're ready, son. Tell me — oh, son, let me *hear* it." 

Porthos moans — "I'm ready, Daddy. I'm ready, and I — please fuck me. Please fuck me and knot me and — do it *hard*." 

Daddy takes a shuddering breath and presses the slick, dripping tip of his cock right against Porthos's rim. "Don't. *Clench*," he says, and — pushes. 

And pushes — 

And *pushes*, and he's so hot, so — 

So *hot* — 

Porthos hasn't *felt* — 

"I'm — I'm hotter than other men, son. You will be, too. Oh, son. Almost. Almost, and then — then you can lose a little bit of control — fuck," Daddy, says, and pushes *in*, so — 

All the way to his — knot. 

So hot, so — fat and throbbing and *hot*, right against Porthos's *hole*, and Daddy is *growling*, and Porthos is *shaking* and Daddy is pulling *out* — 

And *shoving* back in — 

All the way *in* so sleek so smooth so — 

Porthos pants and pants and tries not to — 

But Daddy is pulling out again and Porthos — 

Clenches — 

Daddy snarls and *slams* in — 

Porthos *howls* — 

"*Good* boy," Daddy says, and his voice is low, rough, *hungry* — 

His hands are on Porthos's hips — 

So *strong* — 

He's holding Porthos *still* — and giving Porthos *long* thrusts, smooth thrusts, almost — 

Almost *gliding* thrusts, because there's so *much* oil, and there's so much of *him*, but it's also *hard*, and, after a moment, Daddy whuffs out a breath, changes angle, and starts *ramming* Porthos's pleasure-button on every stroke. 

It — 

Porthos *barks* for it — 

Barks every *time* — 

Tries to — 

He knows his pack is *talking* — 

He knows they're saying — 

He wants to *hear* them, he always wants to — 

(I don't think you need to focus on anyone but me right now, son...) 

Fuck — yes, Daddy!

(Oh, son — oh, son, you feel...) And Daddy growls and — covers him. Wraps his arms round Porthos's chest and *bites* Porthos's shoulder and — 

And Porthos feels himself dropping even more — 

Feels himself flexing open *wide* — 

*Hears* himself *crooning* — 

(It's just right, isn't it, son...) 

I — I — 

(It's *exactly* what you needed from your Daddy — almost,) Daddy says, and he's thrusting faster now, *harder* — and his thrusts are getting shorter. 

They — 

His *massive* knot is *slapping* against Porthos's hole with every thrust, and it feels like a promise and it feels like a tease and — 

He needs it. 

He needs it more than anything *else* right now, more than these *perfect* thrusts, so hard, so — 

So *deep*, deep every time, so *hot* — 

He's *whining* — 

He can't let his Daddy think he's *ungrateful* — 

(Shh, shh, son. I know what you need. I need it, too. But I'll always need a little of the other, too.) 

I — I'm sorry, Daddy, I don't mean to — 

(I made us both wait, son. I —) And Daddy growls and bites him again, bites *deep* — 

Porthos *stops* whining — 

Gasps — 

Flexes open *again* — 

(There you are,) Daddy says, and starts... pushing. Starts *working* that huge, fat knot *in* — 

He — 

(You can take it, son. You *will* take it.) 

"Unh —" 

(For me.) 

"For — for all of you!" 

And Porthos can hear his Uncles making soft, hungry noises — and he can *feel* his Daddy smiling, deep inside. 

(I'll not forget this is a pack. I'll... mm. Even when I get a trifle possessive...) 

"We forgive you, Fearless!" 

"Oui, oui, notre neveu has been very goading!" 

Daddy laughs into the *bite-wound* on Porthos's *shoulder* — 

Porthos yips into the duvet and clenches helplessly — 

Daddy growls and reaches back to smack Porthos's *cock*, light and *sharp* — 

Porthos *yelps* — and flexes open again — 

(Let's try that again, son,) Daddy says, and pushes — 

And pushes — 

Porthos *sweats* — and he can feel the frontal curve of that knot just... slip right in.

"I always love the look on a person's face when they feel that knot slipping in," Uncle Kitos says. 

Uncle Reynard sighs. "It has been the *most* unfair thing that we have not been able to see this look on notre meneur's face." 

Uncle Kitos laughs hard. "Until later this morning, anyway!" 

Porthos yips again — 

(Don't — don't get excitable, lads,) Daddy says, and *holds* Porthos in his teeth as he keeps *pushing*. (We don't know... when our boy will be ready for that sort of thing.) 

Whenever — whenever — 

(Whenever I want it, son?) 

I — 

(Whenever *we* want it?) 

Yeah! Please let me — 

Daddy growls *into* Porthos's throat and pushes faster, just — 

Just *faster* — 

Oh — oh, Daddy, do you like — 

(I love how much you need to *please* us, son.) 

Porthos yips and yips and pants — 

Whines *helplessly* because the knot is so *big*, but — it's just right. It's — 

(It's *exactly* what you need...)

Daddy! I mean — I don't — I — 

Daddy rumbles — and pants, licking the bite healed. "You... mm. You can think about it if you need to, son," he says, and pushes *harder* — 

"*Unh* — *please* —" 

"You can... fuck. Fuck, I — mm. You can think all you need to. We both know you can only come to one *conclusion*," Daddy says, and *grinds* in — 

"*Yes*! I — I — *please*!" 

"Is it what you need?"

Porthos *croons* — 

Bites the duvet and *croons* — 

"Shh, shh, I won't stop. I promise," Daddy says, and squeezes Porthos's chest *hard* — 

Porthos *barks* and flexes open again — 

"Good *boy*." And Daddy *shoves* in — 

Porthos *howls* — 

There are *tears* on his cheeks — 

Bright colours in his *vision* — 

He can't — 

He — 

"Shh, shh. My good boy. We're almost there. That was the biggest part." 

Porthos blinks and blinks and — breathes. 

"That's it... and I bet you can think a little better — just like *I* can, now that I can smell your *pain*." 

"Oh — fuck — please, Daddy, don't stop —" 

Daddy nips him. "I won't, son. The pain is normal for this, and I'm experienced with knotting people at this point. I won't injure you." 

Porthos breathes more, but — "I knew that..." 

"And you needed me to know that you knew that. Mm." Daddy licks a long stripe from Porthos's shoulder to his temple. "What else do you need me to know, son," he asks, and starts pushing again — 

"Unh — oh, fuck — oh, fuck —" 

"It'll get easier — and feel easier — very, very soon..." 

"Yes, Daddy, please, I — please, I need it *faster* —" 

Daddy growls and moves one hand to Porthos's hip, gripping him and holding him *still* — 

"Yeah —" 

Daddy *bites* again — (Now, son,) he says, and *shoves* in, all the way, just — 

And Porthos can't do more than gasp, can't — 

He's opening and closing his mouth — 

He's *shaking* — 

He's never *been* full like this — 

He didn't think it was *possible* to be full like this without being *injured* — 

Daddy is growling and growling and *shuddering* — 

Clawing Porthos's hip — 

Porthos can feel his knot *throbbing* — 

Feel it — 

Fuck, snugged-up tight against Porthos's pleasure-button, and it's taking everything *in* him not to clench, not to clench so fucking *tight*, not to — 

He needs it, he needs it, he needs his Daddy to *ream* him, he needs it more than anything, he finally has Daddy's knot, and if he *doesn't* get reamed, he'll fall apart right bloody *here* — 

(Oh, son... that's. That's exactly what you're going to *get*,) Daddy says, and *grinds* in — 

In — 

*In* — 

"Please!" 

(There's nothing I need more. There's nothing I — only my mate. Only her. We were all bound *together*, son. All three of us, son. One — one *ritual* to make us one *blood*, I —) And Daddy snarls and *shoves* in again — 

Porthos *yelps* — 

He doesn't understand — 

He wants to *understand* — 

(I'll tell you — I'll tell you bloody everything — just *take* me!) 

"Yes, Daddy!"

It feels like Daddy's snarling into Porthos's *spine* — 

And Daddy is fucking him *hard*. So — 

The thrusts are *short*. Rough and hot and — 

They're *tied*. That knot won't let them get *anywhere*, but — 

But it's good, so hot and wild and — 

Porthos is panting and crooning and *blushing* — 

Clawing at the duvet and nodding, wanting — 

Wanting so much — 

(*What* do you want, son? You can bloody *have* it,) Daddy says, and he's shoving in, just — 

Just *in* — 

He's *rutting* in, rutting like — 

Like the animal he *is* — 

And Porthos's mouth falls open on *desperate* noise — 

He's so close to *spending* again — 

He's so *hard* — 

He's so *needy* — 

Daddy *barks* into the wound on his neck — 

Pulls back — 

"Daddy —" 

"I know — I know what you need —"

He never stops *rutting* — 

"And I *won't*, son. *None* of us will stop with you. My boy. My beautiful —" And Daddy snarls and hauls Porthos up into a sprawl over his thighs — 

Ruts *up* into Porthos's *arse* — 

Up and up and *in* — 

Porthos croons and croons and reaches — 

"NNH — you know what to *do*, lads —" 

"Are you *sure*, Fearless?" 

"Non, non, verrat, we are *needed*. That is the *only* important thing," Uncle Reynard says, and his strong, hard hand is wrapped round Porthos's cock — 

"Fuck — we can't let our little lad down," Uncle Kitos says — and kisses him hard, kisses him sweetly, kisses him *deep* — 

Porthos croons into Uncle Kitos's mouth — 

Daddy drags his hilt-calluses over and over Porthos's nipples — 

Uncle Reynard starts tossing him *off* — 

And it's good, so *good*, so *right*, so *much* — 

Porthos has always *needed* a family, a big *family*, and he can't wait to spend more time with Uncle Laurent and Aunt Marie-Angelique — 

But — what if they don't want — 

(They will, lad! They're just as hungry as we are!) And Uncle Kitos smiles into Porthos's eyes with his warm brown ones, his happy eyes, his — 

"They are *wild* inside, neveu. Dirty and sweet — just like you." 

"They are — so beautiful. So. *Right*," Daddy says, and wraps *one* arm around Porthos's chest, squeezing hard enough to steal Porthos's breath and gripping Porthos's bollocks with the other hand. "Spend for us. Spend all. Night. *Long*." 

Porthos grunts and clenches — 

His eyes fly open *wide* for the sensation of clenching around that *much* — 

He *howls* into Uncle Kitos's mouth — 

And Uncle Kitos *laughs* into *his* mouth, rattling his teeth — "That's got it, Fearless. Keep that up." 

"Over and — over — fuck, I can't imagine pulling *out*," Daddy says, and he sounds angry and he sounds *worried* —

"Do not think about this, meneur," Uncle Reynard says, and switches hands on Porthos's cock, reaching over Porthos's shoulder to feed Daddy Porthos's slick. "Think about *filling* notre neveu, mm?" 

"HNH — I." 

"Yeah, you like that idea, Fearless..." 

"Of course I bloody — don't — *MM* —"

"Fill him *up*, meneur," Uncle Reynard says, and takes his fingers back — 

"*Fuck* —"

"Grab those hips and *make* him take you, Fearless —" 

"Make him *ride* you —" 

"Fuck don't — don't make me spend too *fast* —" 

Porthos whines helplessly — 

And Daddy *drops* his hands to Porthos's hips immediately — "Son. Do you *need* me to spend fast?" 

Porthos's cock jerks and jerks and — he can't think — 

"Understand, son — I *will* go again, no matter what." 

And that... Porthos blinks and swallows. And licks his lips. 

And licks his lips again. 

And... 

Daddy rumbles. "My boy wants his Daddy's cock in his *mouth*..." 

Porthos clenches *again* — 

Daddy barks and shoves *in* — and pants in Porthos's ear. "You're going to *get* it. But first? This," he says, gripping Porthos's hips tight and *making* Porthos ride his short, perfect thrusts. 

He — 

A part of Porthos is insisting that the thrusts shouldn't be that good — 

That the *ride* shouldn't be that good — 

That it's never *been* that good when the thrusts have *been* short, but — but there's everything else. There's — 

That cock is so big, and that knot is bloody *huge*, and Daddy is licking every part of Porthos he can *reach*, and Uncle Kitos is *sharing* Porthos's cock with Uncle Reynard, and Daddy is *pumping* Porthos's bollocks, and Uncle Reynard is nibbling on all the bite-marks, and Uncle Kitos is kissing him — 

Kissing him again and again — 

And someone is telling him he's beautiful —

And someone is telling him that he's theirs, that he belongs, that he always has, that he always will, that they'll never let him go — 

Never — 

*Never* — 

And Daddy is growling again, biting again — 

Rutting so *fast* — 

And Uncle Reynard is nibbling Porthos's fingers even while he squeezes Porthos's cock so — 

So *hard* — 

And Uncle Kitos is *fucking* Porthos's mouth with his tongue, swallowing Porthos's desperate, hungry whines, his yips, his — 

And Daddy crushes Porthos's bollocks up against Uncle Reynard's working hand so right, so *right* — 

Porthos *howls* again — 

*Tries* to flex open — 

(You're. Plugged up tight, son. Just the way you should be,) Daddy says, and bites the *back* of Porthos's neck for the first time, just — 

Right there — 

Right *there* — 

Porthos can't think — 

Porthos can't *see* — 

It's so *right* — 

He's howling and *straining* to buck, straining to *bounce* — 

And then Uncle Reynard *bites* his fingers — 

And Uncle Kitos bites his *mouth* — 

And Daddy growls deep. (*Stay*.) 

Porthos's eyes roll up *as* he clenches — 

He howls, messy and high and *loudly* — 

Daddy doesn't even slow *down* — 

Porthos can't remember how to *open* — 

(Stay *clenched*.) 

Porthos clenches harder and *screams* a howl — 

(Oh, son...) And Daddy bites deep — 

His Uncles bite *viciously* and stroke him, keep *stroking* him — 

Porthos is shaking, burning, *aching* — 

He needs — 

(*Spend*.) 

Daddy — 

(Right now, son. Right now while we have you in our hands and our *teeth*. Right now while you're. You're spitted on my *cock*. Right now while you're *hurting* for it —) 

*Please*! *You*!

"NNH —" (Fuck — *fuck* — anything, son. *Anything* you want. You need your Daddy to lose his mind for you? I promise that's. Only ever. A heartbeat away,) Daddy says, and his grip on Porthos's hips is bruisingly tight as he *slams* in over and over and — 

Porthos still can't *see* — 

He can't — 

He flexes open *helplessly* — 

He has to be *open* for his Daddy, take everything he gives, never shut him *out*, never *refuse* him — 

(Oh — *fuck* —) 

Uncle Kitos pulls back from Porthos's mouth and hums. "Our little lad will always be ready for you, Fearless..." 

(I —) 

"Notre neveu... he will be sweet and *eager* for *all* of us, meneur..." 

"Yes! Please!" 

Daddy's snarl *becomes* a high-pitched and *pained* whine as he slams in again and again and *again* — but. His knot is getting even bigger. Swelling even *fatter*. 

Fuck — 

Oh — 

Oh, fuck, Porthos doesn't know if he can — 

(You can — you can *take* it, son, I — oh —) And Daddy slams in twice more before shuddering and *spasming* inside him — 

Spasming *deep*, over and over — 

Daddy *howls* into the back of Porthos's neck — 

Oh — 

Porthos does his best to clench on that *unbelievable* knot *purposefully* — 

And then Daddy breaks the bite and starts *rutting* again — 

"*Fuck*!" 

Uncle Kitos *thunders* laughter — 

"Your mistake was thinking he was finished, neveu," Uncle Reynard says, shaking his head mock-sadly. 

Porthos croons and groans and tries to catch a *breath* — 

Daddy is still howling — 

Daddy is still *rutting* — 

Daddy is still *spending* — 

"Yeah, he'll be at that for a bit, lad. Here, focus on this, instead," Uncle Kitos says, and he and Uncle Reynard proceed to molest his cock *thoroughly*.

Focusing on that does make things a little easier — for *this* kind of fuck, Porthos thinks, hands and knees might have been a little easier — 

And then Daddy stiffens and *freezes* behind him. Which. 

"Uh. I'm willing to be *put* on my hands and knees, Daddy. Don't — don't tense up back there —" 

Daddy growls. "I hurt you." 

Porthos reaches back for Daddy's hip. "Only a little —" 

"Son —" 

"Only a *little*. And I *needed* to be up on my knees so I could have my Uncles all over me earlier on,," Porthos says, and rubs Daddy's hip.

He can *feel* Daddy frowning... on a number of levels. 

It feels *exactly* like Captain Treville's frowns for when he knew one or more of his *men* were hurting and he couldn't do anything about it — 

Daddy coughs — 

Uncle Kitos splutters — 

And Uncle Reynard cups Porthos's face and kisses him soundly. "Bien. You have found the perfect way to keep notre chien from taking all of the cares of the world on his furry little shoulders." 

Daddy salutes Reynard — 

Uncle Kitos *thunders* laughter — 

And Porthos feels... warm. All over. 

*Useful* all over. 

All *through* himself. 

Just — 

Daddy shivers behind him, and wraps his arms round Porthos again, kissing his ear. "Son." 

"Yes, Daddy." 

"A part of you... mm. I don't have to ask, really, but I will, anyway. I always want to hear your voice." 

Porthos blushes. "Yes, Daddy." 

Daddy strokes his belly. "A part of you... pulling me out of myself just then, and having that acknowledged by your Uncles — that was just as good for you as making love with us this way. Wasn't it." 

Porthos shivers and ducks his head. "I've... wanted to ease.. him. My — Treville."

"You did, lad." 

"I —" 

"You did," Daddy says, low and sure. "I bet... he called you to his office, when he could. All by yourself, or with your brothers. To 'see how you're settling in', or to 'check on your progress', or, later, just to 'see how you were getting on' with one problem or another he'd 'noticed'." 

"Uh... hunh." 

"I bet he doesn't do that all that often with the other men." 

"No..." 

"And of course he has to inspect the men..." Daddy says, and there's a *wicked* smile in his voice. 

"I hardly ever see him when he does that!" 

"No. You don't. But all he has to do is stay downwind of you on a clear *enough* day to have your scents... and everything you're talking about with your brothers."

Porthos swallows and — stops. 

He can't —

He — 

"Oh, non, non — what is this?" And Uncle Reynard is caressing Porthos's cheek with his free hand — 

And Uncle Kitos is caressing and massaging Porthos's shoulder with *his* free hand — "You have to tell us now, lad..." 

"I — I won't hide —" 

"That's right you won't," Daddy says, and licks up into his hairline. "I know I fucked up something. Tell us what it was." 

Porthos blushes. "You didn't —" 

"Son." 

Porthos — drops. And blushes harder. "Yes, Daddy. It just — it sounded like... you were preparing to... give me away —" 

Daddy snarls and *grips* his hips again — "*Never* —" 

"*Never*, lad —" 

And Uncle Reynard is growling and *gripping* Porthos by the *hair*. 

Uncle Kitos could probably pick him up and *move* him by the grip he has on Porthos's shoulder — 

And. It's all extremely reassuring. Porthos takes a breath and nods. "I — all right. Thank you." 

"You don't have to thank us for this, lad. We *needed* you. We always will," Uncle Kitos says, and shakes him by his grip a little. 

"*Oui*." 

"And *you* need more than that, I think," Daddy says, and licks Porthos's ear. 

"I'm all right —" 

"Never settle for less than everything you want, son. Everything you *need*." 

Porthos shivers. "I... I don't know how to do that, Daddy." 

Uncle Reynard smiles ruefully. "It is a *difficult* lesson to learn, neveu. But we will teach. We will *all* teach." 

"That's *right*," Uncle Kitos says, and brushes Uncle Reynard's hand out of Porthos's hair so he can *pet* Porthos — 

Run his thick, deft fingers through it while Uncle Reynard rubs Porthos's chest — 

It feels so *good* — 

So much better than things like that have felt *before* — 

And Daddy laughs softly and licks Porthos's ear twice more. "You're growing into a shifter, son. You have a dog inside you with many, many, *many* strong opinions about *everything*. Including? Being *petted*." 

Porthos blinks.

"Never turn it down, son. Turning down love and affection from the people *you* love is asinine at the best of times. Turning down petting from the people you love when you're a *dog*? Is close to *suicidally* asinine. Try to avoid it." 

"I — yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and wonders, helplessly, just who *is* petting the Captain in the sphere Porthos had left — 

"Which brings us to the question you didn't ask — but should have," Daddy says, and nuzzles at the space just behind Porthos's ear. 

His lips are so soft — 

His *beard* feels *amazing* — 

Porthos is *crooning* — and then he isn't, because Daddy isn't *doing* it anymore. "What? Daddy?" 

Uncle Kitos booms a quiet laugh. "He needs your attention, lad." 

"Ah, oui," Uncle Reynard says, and smiles wryly. "Notre Amina loves having her ears played with just this much..." 

"And so does our Fearless! But not right now. Keep those lips to yourself for the moment, Fearless." 

Daddy snorts. "*Fine*. *Berk*." And he licks Porthos's temple. "What I was saying: I was only talking about the other Treville, and what he was probably thinking and feeling as the Captain, to give you an *edge* just in case you do get taken away from us." 

"Oh — oh," Porthos says, and frowns, and nods. "Even if that Treville heals me and binds me —" 

"Which he will, immediately, because there won't be any other options to keep you as safe and close as he'll *need* to keep you." 

"Right, right — he still might try to keep up discipline and the like." 

Daddy sighs. "He'll probably feel like he *has* to. That *because* he failed so spectacularly in managing to keep you safe before —" 

"But —" 

"You will not be able to get him to stop thinking that, son. Don't waste your time on that." 

Porthos frowns helplessly. 

Daddy kisses his ear. "Focus on reminding him of the facts: You're bound. You always *were* bound. You only *stopped* being bound to him when *you* bound yourself — entirely willingly — to another Treville. Even before you *knew* you were bound —" 

"I wanted him," Porthos says — and blushes. 

"Did you, now." 

Uncle Reynard makes a softly appreciative noise — 

He and Uncle Kitos tighten their *grip* on Porthos's still-hard cock — 

"Oh — fuck —" 

"Did you dream about him, son...?" 

"Daddy —" 

"Did he touch you in your dreams?" 

Porthos moans and just — 

Just gives up, gives up on *everything* — 

"That's right, lad. You don't hide *anything* from us," Uncle Kitos says, and guides Uncle Reynard into a slow and *ruthless* stroke — 

Porthos whines and shivers — 

And Daddy is working his bollocks again — and cupping Porthos's throat with his other hand. "My boy..." 

"Y-yours!" 

"Mm. Tell us how he touched you in your dreams, son. Your..." And Daddy licks Porthos's cheek — 

The corner of his mouth — 

"Tell us how he made you *spend*." 

Porthos croons — stops himself. "Not like this. Not —" 

"Then how? Mm? You know Daddy needs to give you *everything* you want..." 

"Fuck —" 

"Tell us *everything*, neveu," Uncle Reynard says, and Porthos knows that it's him guiding the squeezes, the — 

The dirty and *mean* squeezes — 

So — 

Just as it's Uncle Kitos who's making sure the strokes go on and on so perfectly, so endlessly, so — 

Porthos *croons* — 

And Daddy *nips* him — 

"Please! It wasn't this good! It was never this *good*!" 

They pause. They all *pause*, just for a moment — 

"Please, *please* —" 

And then Daddy growls, low and hard and *commanding* — 

Porthos can't help but straighten his *spine* — 

"Oh, son..." 

"Daddy, yes, please, *anything* —" 

"Shh. Just tell us..." *He* shivers. "Did you think he would be... cruel?" 

"Not — not that — he's not —" 

"He's not a cruel man." 

"No! Never!" 

"He was your Captain, though. Wasn't he." 

Porthos breathes a sigh of relief. "Yes, Daddy. He — he wasn't my *Daddy*. And — I didn't have Uncles." 

Uncle Reynard growls — 

And, when Uncle Kitos squeezes, it's the most all-encompassing and *warm* thing — 

Even through the *pain* of it — 

Porthos whines and whines and nods — 

"You're *our* lad, Porthos —" 

"*Ours*," Uncle Reynard says, and they stroke him faster — 

And Porthos pants and nods and nods — 

And Daddy bites his *ear* — 

Porthos *stills* himself — 

Daddy licks him. "He's going to take your blood to bind you to him — and you're going to take his." 

"I —" 

"*If* you get ripped away from us. Which — a part of me can't help making plans for even terrible futures, son. That part is the part which *will* be the Captain someday. Listen." 

"Yes, Daddy —" 

"You'll share blood... and then he will never, ever be anything but your father. Your *Daddy*. A part of him will still be the Captain if you push him *hard* enough, and he'll still be able to *pretend* to be the Captain — I'm damned sure he's a good *enough* liar by this point in his life — but. He'll know you. 

"He'll *feel* you. 

"He'll know, with the clarity of absolute truth, that you're the blood in his *veins*, and that you always have been. And he will crave you every minute of every day. Make use of that." 

"I —" 

"Make *use* of that, son. For *his* sake, even when you can't do it for your own." 

Porthos blinks — 

Thinks about how much he *needs* his pack, how much he needs to feel them, have them — 

Have them be *close* and *touching* him — but. 

Especially his Daddy. 

Especially his Daddy's big, scarred hands and sharp teeth and *blazingly* passionate eyes and — 

Everything. 

*Everything* — and. "He'll. Feel the same about me." 

Daddy squeezes Porthos's throat hard and his bollocks *harder* — 

"*Nnh* —" 

"He'll let France *burn* the *moment* you need that to happen, son..." 

Porthos clenches around that hugely-swollen knot — 

Gasps and *shouts* — 

His cock spasms *violently* in his Uncles' hands — 

And Uncle Kitos growls. "You like that, lad? Are you remembering what it's *like* to be loved like that?" 

"Notre Amina loved you *just* this much —" 

"Yeah — *yeah* —" 

And *Daddy* growls. "We *all* love you that much, son. Tell me you can *smell* it." 

Porthos breathes deep and whines, arches, *gives* — 

Tries to speak and another croon comes out, another and *another* — 

"Oh, son, oh — I understand *perfectly*," he says, and starts licking and nipping and *nuzzling* that space behind Porthos's ear — 

Porthos *barks* — 

Shivers all over and *barks* — 

"Ah, oui, neveu? *None* of us will forget this," Uncle Reynard says — 

"And we will *absolutely* tell Laurent and Marie-Angelique," Uncle Kitos says, and, "Faster now, fox-face —" 

"*Oui*," he says, and they're working him so good, so perfectly, so — 

They keep *squeezing* when they reach the base, and usually that doesn't *do* much for him, but right now it's making bright colours flash behind his eyes — 

It's making him want to get down on all fours again — 

It's making croon and croon and — fuck, *drool* — 

And Uncle Kitos darts in to licks Porthos's mouth, his beard — 

To nuzzle their beards together — 

Porthos bucks helplessly — 

And Daddy moves his hand from Porthos's throat back to his hip — 

*Yanks* him back down that last tiny bit onto his massive knot — 

Porthos *howls* — 

"Every time you make that noise, I want to fuck you *hard*, son —" 

"*Daddy*!" 

"He's not the only one, neveu…" 

"Oh —" 

"Some of us have *always* enjoyed bouncing pretty young lads on our laps," Uncle Kitos says, and they both squeeze hard, so *hard* — 

Porthos howls again — and dreams of it, dreams of being passed *around* by his pack, dreams of being bent and spread and — 

Not used.

Not — 

"You are dreaming of being loved *hard*, neveu," Uncle Reynard says — 

"It's *exactly* what you're going to get," Uncle Kitos says, and pinches and tugs Porthos's nipples with his free hand — 

Porthos yips — 

Daddy growls and *bites* the space behind his ear — 

Porthos feels his cock *spitting* slick — 

Daddy growls harder and *suckles* there, laps and laps and bites again — 

*Massages* Porthos's bollocks against his Uncles' working hands — 

And Porthos wants to *move* — 

Wants to *ride* Daddy's knot a little more — 

Or a lot more — 

Daddy snarls and *releases* Porthos's bollocks — 

Uncle Reynard *immediately* *grips* them — 

Porthos *barks* — 

And Daddy holds Porthos by the hips and makes him ride again, makes him — 

Makes him *bounce* — 

Porthos nods helplessly, nods because it's big, so big, and he's swollen and *sensitive*, but he's used to it now, used to being *stuffed* with his Daddy, so full, so perfectly full — 

Oh, it's so *good* — 

So sleek and hot and wild and *good* — 

He's not even as raw as he gets when he does himself!

"*Son*!" 

Porthos nods more and tries to urge faster, more, *harder* — 

Daddy growls like the day of *judgment* and *pounds* him, in-in-in-*in*, and Porthos can't focus on anything else, can't think, can't — 

No, his Uncles are *stripping* his cock, working him so — 

He's so *hard* — 

He's so perfectly *hard* — 

He wants this all the bloody *time* — 

He doesn't — 

He doesn't even want to *spend* again, fuck, he's so *full* — 

He doesn't want this to *end* —

And he can hear breathless laughter all around him, happy laughter, pleased — 

He's made his pack so *happy* — 

He's made them feel *right* — 

There's nothing *better* — 

"Lad... even after you spend? *Nothing* ends," Uncle Kitos says —

Porthos grunts in the middle of another croon — 

"*Nothing*, neveu," Uncle Reynard says, and squeezes his bollocks *viciously* — 

Porthos sobs and *howls* again — 

Daddy bites the back of his neck and holds him *still* — and fucks him *brutally* — 

Porthos is *drooling* again — 

He can't — 

His cock is spasming over and *over* again — 

His Uncles start working his *cock* brutally — 

"What about this, lad, mm?" And Kitos licks his mouth again. "Do you want this again and again?" 

He wants to answer yes, he wants to tell them all *yes*, he wants to beg it, scream it, *howl* it — 

(We can hear *everything*, son,) Daddy says — and he's snarling again, snarling right *into* him, and — 

And the only thing Porthos can do is fall into it — 

Give up everything and just — 

Just drop — 

(— *right*, son —) 

"— must *surrender*, neveu —" 

"— open right up, lad —" 

(— care of my *boy* —)

Just *fall* — 

"— *beau*, si *beau*, neveu —"

"— 'til your Daddy's giving you his *fist* —" 

(— *everything* for you!) 

Fall and fall and — 

"— take *our* turns, lad —" 

"— fuck you and *fill* you and *have* you *always*, neveu —" 

Anything for his pack, anything they want, anything they *need* — 

And Uncle Kitos snarls and bites him all over his *face* — 

And Uncle Reynard squeezes with both *hands* — 

And Daddy is fucking him so hard, so *hard* — 

Porthos can't catch a breath — 

(*Don't* breathe, son. Think about your Uncles shoving in *right* after I pull out — now, *spend*.) 

Porthos *yips* and goes *rigid* — 

Clenches and *howls* again — 

And then Uncle Kitos bites Porthos's lip *while* Uncle Reynard is turning his short nails on Porthos's *bollocks*, and Porthos is sobbing and sobbing and spurting all over both of them, all over their hands and arms and the bed between them and — 

And all over Uncle Reynard's *chest* when he *aims*, and Porthos hadn't thought he'd have that much *left* — 

He spurts *again* — 

*Again* — 

Fuck — 

He slumps. 

He pants — 

He stares at *nothing*. 

After a little while, he becomes aware that he's being very thoroughly petted by his pack — and that Daddy *isn't* reaming him anymore. 

He didn't — 

Daddy rumbles a laugh. "I didn't spend again, no, son. I'm saving that for your beautiful mouth." 

Porthos blinks. "Uh... you can? I mean —" 

"I've had to learn a *lot* about control — and, sadly, you'll have to, too —" 

"Daddy —" 

"Shh, son. This all gets a lot easier after you've knotted someone *once* in a night." 

"But if you —" 

"I *don't* need to spend this way a second time, son. And I *do* need to fuck your mouth." 

Porthos licks his lips helplessly, but — 

"To *anticipate* your next objection, lad?" 

"Uh — yeah, Uncle Kitos?" 

And Uncle Kitos smiles at him with warm amusement, petting Porthos's beard roughly back into place. "Your Daddy didn't get his *turn* with that beautiful mouth of yours, lad." 

"Oh —" 

Uncle Reynard laughs *evilly*. "And *we* did not get *our* turns with your *arse*, neveu." 

And Porthos is about to be a *little* terrified about that — it's one thing to want a man to finish himself off in your arse; it's something else entirely to want two *other* men to fuck you after you've been *knotted* — but...

But. He's hardly sore, at all. 

He feels *less* sore by the *moment*. 

Even with Daddy still *inside* him — 

This time, Daddy is laughing. *Ruefully*. 

"Daddy...?" 

"You healed, son. Just like you healed from *all* of my bites — other than the first one — *without* my help." 

"What — but. I'm a witch, now. An earth-witch." 

"That's right, son," Daddy says, and licks up into his hairline again. A couple of times. "You're going to need some training in just how to keep yourself *discreet*. But I promise we can give it to you." 

"I — yes, Daddy. I trust you." 

"You shouldn't. I'm *horrible* at keeping myself discreet, son," Daddy says, and laughs in Porthos's ear — 

"He really is, lad!" 

"Discretion is for *cowards*," Uncle Reynard says, and his eyes are glittering. 

Porthos nods judiciously. "Right you are, all. I'll just be pissing on the Queen-Regent's tulip-beds and mounting her spaniels in the throne room — she has spaniels, right? I suppose I could mount her cats if she has those —" 

Daddy splutters — 

Uncle Reynard snickers like a *boy* — 

"You watch that, lad. Those spaniels are your Daddy's *informants*," Uncle Kitos says, and pretends to glower. 

"Are they, then? What do they have to say?" 

Daddy wheezes. "Mostly that I smell better than the other men she talks to, and that I should definitely work harder to fuck her, so that she'll smell better, too." 

Porthos *snorts* — "Her own dogs don't like the way she *smells*?" 

"I was scandalized, too, son, believe me. But she really does like perfume — *especially* on her wrists." 

"Oh — and she's *petting* the dogs — got it." 

"I know you do, son. You weren't wearing any perfume when you got here, but I could still smell hints of it on your shirt. *Good* perfume, but even the best scents are going to be too much for you a lot of the time." 

"I don't — oh. Oh. I'd hugged Aramis when I was wearing that shirt..." And Porthos licks his lips and tries not to think — 

Tries not to think about losing his *brother* — 

*Leaving* his brother — 

Daddy growls low and bites him gently but *firmly* — 

"I — I —" 

"Shh, lad. We all know your heart's a little at war," Uncle Kitos says, and smiles ruefully. 

Porthos *stares* at him — 

Licks his lips — 

He. He doesn't know how to get home. 

Nothing *happened* when Daddy bound him to the pack except — except for everything. 

Except for everything feeling just *right*. 

Except for the word 'home' gaining — gaining a new definition. 

Uncle Reynard nods and strokes through Porthos's hair — 

And Daddy breaks the bite and *kisses* up to his ear. "Listen to me carefully, son." 

"I — I *will*, Daddy —"

"*None* of us want you going *anywhere*. I have *every* intention of moving you into my home — *our* home — as soon as *possible* —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"I *need* you here. We *all* need you here." 

"Yes, Daddy, I —" 

"Shh. There's more." 

Porthos grunts and blinks and swallows. And nods. 

"Good boy," Daddy says, and strokes Porthos's hips — 

And kisses Porthos's ear — 

And sighs — "The *fact* that we need you here has no bearing, ultimately, on what *you* need — or what you *come* to need —" 

"No —" 

"Shh." 

"*Daddy* —" 

"Quiet down now, son. I promise to let you have your say in just a moment." 

Porthos shudders — 

And his Uncles press closer, touch him more *firmly* — 

And Daddy licks his cheek. "*If* you ever need to leave us? Need to go back to your other home? *We will find a way to make it happen.* That's it. That's all. You're our boy, and we *love* you, but we will not *ever* hold you away from what you need. Now. Say what you need to say." 

Porthos groans. "I need — I need that. Most of all. I need to *be* needed. I — fuck, 's what I've *always* needed, Daddy! And — and you already knew that. Didn't you?" 

"I did, son. But..." Daddy shakes his head once. 

"Daddy?" 

"Lad..." Uncle Kitos smiles ruefully. "At *some* point? You're going to have to stop making decisions based on what's best for the *other* people in your life." 

Porthos blinks. And then raises his eyebrows very, very slowly. 

His pack laughs hard — but still ruefully. And Uncle Reynard leans in to nuzzle him. "We will not make you do this while we are *aching*, neveu." 

"*Thank* you —" 

"Mais..."

"Uncle —" 

"Shh, son," Daddy says, and licks him twice. "Let us teach you how to take care of *yourself* at least as well as you take care of other people. We promise to try to teach ourselves the same lessons while we're at it." 

Porthos swallows. "I. I don't want to lose — any of this." 

"You did not say your brothers were your *friends*, neveu..." 

"You didn't even say they were *only* your brothers, lad — not that there's any such thing as *only* a brother." 

"They don't — they don't *need* —" 

"We don't know your Aramis, son, it's true. But we've known Olivier since he was in *swaddling*." 

"We've known what makes him laugh that quiet little laugh of his —" 

"Oh." 

And his Uncles raise their eyebrows — 

And Uncle Reynard nods. "We know what *excites* him, neveu. We know what makes him *thrill* inside." 

"We *always* have, son. And even if you weren't our *boy*... we'd still be making plans to bring you to him, or him to *you*, as soon as humanly possible."

Porthos blinks and *coughs* — 

They all stroke him warmly — 

Firmly — 

Porthos can't — 

And Daddy hums. "You're thinking about the fact that *this* Olivier is still *fifteen*." 

"I'm *thinking* about the fact that he's still *Olivier*. He — it's not only becoming a Musketeer that makes him drop everything but the Athos, Daddy. I don't — I don't know what I would do —" 

"You stopped, a little, when I mentioned his *laughter*," Uncle Kitos says, and he's looking *into* Porthos — 

They all are. 

And they're all thinking about what had happened to Thomas on Porthos's sphere. 

Daddy growls. "That creature — she took his laughter when she murdered Thomas. She took his *happiness*." 

Uncle Kitos looks *wounded* — 

And Uncle Reynard looks ready to hunt through every slum in France for a woman who, at this point, is probably a teenager herself. "He *needs* you, neveu." 

"What —" 

"He needs a man who can tell him — warn him — exactly what to look out for, son." 

Porthos grunts. "I — of course I will —" 

"Don't hide from him, lad," Uncle Kitos says, and caresses Porthos's face again. "I *know* it'll be strange to see him younger, and — and fuck only knows how much *softer* than the man you've come to know —" 

Uncle Reynard *growls* again — 

Daddy *grips* Uncle Reynard with one hand — 

"I will not *fight*, meneur —" 

"No — no," Porthos says, and he knows his eyes are wide. "I just — of course I won't hide. Of course I won't. I just didn't think — I mean." He blushes hard and looks down. 

Daddy licks his cheek. "What's that, son?" 

"I — I was thinking — you know. I'm going to help you *get* to — the other Porthos. The one who's close to Olivier's age. And — and your *mate* —" 

Uncle Kitos grunts — 

Uncle Reynard is *blinking* — 

And Daddy is nodding. "You thought you would... cede the younger generation to my younger *son*." 

"Um — that's about the size of it. And what — what *exactly* are you going to *say* about the fact that I look *exactly* like your son, just ten years older?" 

Daddy turns Porthos to face him as much as he *can* — and there is a *truly* obnoxious grin on his face. 

"Oh — *what*?" 

"I bet you didn't know Amina had a brother..." 

"What." 

Daddy waggles his eyebrows. "You've been traveling with her for years." 

"I —" 

"Helping to *raise* our boy —" 

"*Daddy* —" 

"But now it's only *fitting* that you all come. Right. Home. Where you *belong*," Daddy says, and lowers his chin.

When the Captain does that, Porthos's knees get watery and his thoughts turn to buggery. 

When Daddy does it... 

"Your knees get watery and your thoughts turn to buggery, lad?" 

"*Yes*, and you're all *arseholes*." 

Daddy grins. "That we are. But in all seriousness —" 

"No, I — I get it. There's no — ceding. Not in this pack. You're all over Olivier and Thomas — when you can be. Right? All of you, I mean." 

"Mais oui," Uncle Reynard says, and stretches. "Olivier hasn't taken well to knife-fighting —" 

"And the poor lad is only just *starting* to get his growth —" 

"So *I* have given him the lion's share of his *physical* training," Daddy says, "but the boys are *ours*. And when I'm training Olivier? Your Uncles can and *will* spend *extended* amounts of time with Thomas." 

"Who runs rings around us!" And Uncle Kitos laughs hard. 

Uncle Reynard sighs ruefully. "He never tires! His mind goes and goes and *goes*, like some infernal *machine*."

Daddy hums. "You'll like him, too. He has a brilliant mind, a quick wit, and he's *extremely* affectionate within the pack." 

Porthos smiles helplessly. "I... Athos made me half fall in love with Thomas just from how he talked about him, actually. The little bit I could get him *to* talk about him. He always made him sound like... like the most beautiful person he had ever known."

They all sigh a little for that. 

"That's all right, then," Daddy says. 

Uncle Kitos and Uncle Reynard nod, and Uncle Kitos says, "They fought so *much*, lad! But once we all got Laurent to ease up on the boys enough to let Olivier focus on his training more, and let Thomas focus on his *studies* more..." 

"They were *happier* boys, as they always should have been," Uncle Reynard says. 

"That's *right*," Daddy says. "And, really, it was Kitos who did the work there —" 

"All I did was smack him a few times!" 

"*Well*?" 

Uncle Reynard wheezes — 

Porthos blinks — 

*Thinks* about the Laurent he'd met earlier today... 

That *effortlessly* commanding man who had somehow kept Daddy from biting *anyone* in his pack for over fourteen *years* — 

Porthos blinks *more* and *looks* at Uncle Kitos. "Uh. So when you smacked him." 

"Mm? What is it, lad?" 

"Would you say he was more surprised, or more unconscious while you made your escape, or...?

Daddy laughs like an *arsehole* — "Oh, son. Kitos *never* leaves the scene of the crime without being hauled bodily." 

"Right. So you waited until he woke up, then." 

"Absolutely!" 

"And then?" 

"And then I told him I'd keep hitting him until he saw reason! After I'd picked him up and dusted him off, of course." 

"Oh, of course." 

Uncle Kitos nods — and then sighs. "I did regret it, some, though." 

Everyone looks interested in this, but — 

"Why is that, Uncle?" 

"Well, it's like this, lad. Your Uncle Laurent is *married*. And our Amina set the rules for this *years* ago. She was absolutely allowed to punch the hell out of Laurent whenever he was being an arse — and so were all of *us* — but when it came to leaving *bruises*, only Marie-Angelique was allowed to do so in a way that would *show* when he was out in public. You understand." 

Porthos stares again. 

Just. 

For a moment, he absolutely *can't* place his Mum — his *Mum* — in the same category as their Amina, their love, the woman they were *all* sexually involved with and who was beating them all up and playing with them — 

And. Loving them. 

*Loving* them. 

But would she have told him about Laurent if she'd had the chance? 

About Marie-Angelique? 

What would she have *said*? 

And his pack are all petting him again. 

"We — all of us — desperately want to know this, neveu," Uncle Reynard says, and smiles ruefully. 

"We always wanted everything of her, lad. Right from the first moment we met her — and it *was* the two of us who met her first," Uncle Kitos says, and grins. 

"Oh — yeah?" 

His Uncles nod.

Daddy licks his ear. "I was whoring without them that night. They swaggered into a teahouse not *overly* far from the Court of Miracles —" 

"And fell in love," Uncle Reynard says — and grins, too. 

"She told us *exactly* what we could do with ourselves." 

"In *many* different ways, neveu." 

"She was *creative* about it, lad. We had to ask around to see what some of the things she'd told us to do with ourselves *meant*." 

Porthos *snorts* — 

Uncle Kitos *winks* — 

"They went back every *night*," Daddy says, "and *eventually* brought me with them." 

"We thought to ourselves: 'this beautiful woman, she is *very* mean-spirited and belligerent —'"

"'Fearless'll be right up her alley!'" 

Porthos snickers *hard* —

And Daddy presses his grin to Porthos's ear. "They have a different reason for bringing me with them that night *every* time we tell this story, son. Keep asking." 

"*Oh* —" 

"He stole her *right* out from under us, lad." 

"In an *eye-blink*!" 

"I did *try* to get her to be nicer to you berks —" 

"For five *minutes*, meneur," Uncle Reynard says, and his eyes are dancing — 

"By then, lad? She was being mean to *him*, and he was eating it up with a *spoon*." 

"She laughed... so..." Daddy takes a shuddering breath and wraps his arms around Porthos — 

Squeezes him *hard* — 

"Oh, Daddy —" 

"Fearless, do you need us to stop —"

"*No*," he says, and takes *another* shuddering breath, and licks Porthos again and again and — "She laughed *big*, son. Just — that's how the dog in me will put it. He says the same thing about your laughs, about Kitos's laughs... my Amina-love's laughs are as big as the whole world, and I'd never... before that night, I'd never really *felt* for a woman before. Not like that. I needed to hear her laugh. I needed to hear her laugh *constantly*. I needed her *happiness*. I needed — not to be the *only* source of joy in her life, never that, but. But to be one of the most *important* sources of joy in her life. 

"Someone she would turn to *first* when she needed to *smile*. And. And I couldn't have put this all into words, then. I couldn't have. 

"Back then, all I was thinking was 'I have to get her work-schedule', and 'since when do my brothers have *taste*' —" 

His Uncles *choke* on laughs — 

"And. And 'how do I get her to do *that* again?' Laugh again. Laugh like *that* again. Smack me again. Crow again. Throw her head back and *howl* again. Oh, she was. She was so perfect and beautiful and I *needed* her. I *needed* her," Daddy says, and nuzzles into Porthos's throat — 

And shudders — 

And shudders *again* — 

"We both knew he did, lad. So we belted up and did our best to make it happen, even though we'd *never* known him to actually *want* to put his cock in a female of *any* species —" 

"Wait, what —" 

Daddy laughs painfully. "The rituals. The *binding*. Your mother and I were always mates. We were always meant to be *one*. We spent... so much time together. We *slept* together —" 

"Right, I —" 

"— but we never made love, son. Not until *after* we had been bound by a lot of blood-magic. Not until we had been made *one* — and one with the dog-spirits which allowed our powers to be augmented, and one... one with the babe in her belly."

Porthos grunts and *stiffens* in Daddy's — in. In Daddy's arms — 

But should he *think* of him that way?

Daddy snarls and all but *crushes* Porthos's *ribs* with his hug — "I'm. Your. *Father*." 

"Daddy — I —" 

"But you want to know who... did it. Who *fucked* your mother *before* I could." Daddy shudders again and growls — 

And growls *harder* — 

His Uncles look *murderous* — 

Porthos doesn't — "We don't have to —" 

"*No*, son. I — you need to know this. You." Daddy shudders again and nods before loosening his grip enough for Porthos to get a deep breath. "I'd need to know, too. I won't be selfish. Your *blood*-father was the son of the then-Marquis de Belgard —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"He was your mother's *patron* before we all met, and treated her well enough — for a time." 

Porthos narrows his eyes. "He — did he hurt her." 

Daddy *shudders* again — 

"I'll kill him —" 

"Your Daddy already did that, lad," Uncle Kitos says, and his eyes are dark.

"Oui, neveu. And notre Laurent... well. He has made the problem go away. Along with much of the family, from the highest levels of society. We do not know *precisely* how he did this, but notre Laurent, he always had the favour of Henri."

Porthos blinks. "I..." 

"He tried," Daddy says, and stops, and takes *two* shuddering breaths — 

And then squeezes Porthos *tightly* again, but only for a moment before he kisses Porthos's ear so *gently*. 

"Daddy, what — please tell me what he *did*." 

"He hired a madman of an assassin — with some little power to him, and an immunity to earth-magery — to murder both you and your mother, son." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"While all four of *us* were out of the *country*, lad," Uncle Kitos says. 

"Your mother had to fight the assassin off with you in her *arms*, son. With nothing but one *blade*. I found that out when I hunted him down, months later. He was mad. Stinking of it. He would've killed any woman who'd gotten his blood up just enough, and he'd finally been caught for just that in Reims. I cut him to pieces when I'd gotten the story out of him. As much of the story as I *could* get.

"And then I went back for Belgard." 

Porthos swallows. "And you — did for him." 

For some reason, Daddy doesn't say anything. He's... paused, like he doesn't *want* to say what he'd done to Belgard... 

"Daddy...?" 

"It would be... reasonable for you to be. I know he was your blood-father —" 

"*Fearless* —" 

"He doesn't — he tried to bloody *kill* us!"

"Oui, meneur, listen to your *son* —" 

"I." Daddy shudders and *grips* him again, shudders all through himself and just — "I gutted him, son. *Partially*." 

"Uh." 

"And then I strung him up by his own intestines on his own *land* and left him to die *slowly* — for his pathetic, greedy, bigoted family to *find*." 

Porthos... blinks more.

Uncle Reynard raises an eyebrow at him. 

Uncle Kitos raises two. 

Porthos licks his *lips* — "So um." 

"Son..." 

"I'm going to need some help coming up with things like *that* to do to people who richly deserve it —" 

"*Son*, don't — don't hide from what you *feel* —" 

"Daddy, I *know* you think I'm going to be angry at you or disgusted with you or — or *some* damned thing for killing that *stain*, but the only thing I'm *really* upset about is that you couldn't get *all* the information out of the assassin. Out of — what *happened* after Mum got us clear? How come you couldn't *find* us?" 

"We do not *know*, neveu. We have *never* —" 

"The All-Mother *told* me, lads," Daddy says. 

"What?" 

"Fearless —" 

"She told me — what She could." 

"Tell *us*!" 

Daddy shivers and nods. "She showed me... images. Feelings. *Sensations*. Amina running. Amina scared. Amina packing up her things — and Porthos's things — and running *more*. And — I couldn't even tell where. She couldn't show me. She couldn't show me who Amina had run *to*. But She could tell me that it was to a *death*-mage —" 

"Bloody buggering — what does *that* mean?" 

"It —" 

Porthos grunts. "She made a bargain," Porthos says, and swallows. "She — that's what Yejide always said, when I asked her why my Mum had gotten so sick. She said Mum had made a bad bargain with a bad death-witch. And — *Yejide's* a death-witch. She *trained* me in this. You can't do much of anything serious with it *without* making bargains. Making — trades." Porthos frowns hard. "Did. Did my Mum trade her life away? For me?" 

"Neveu —" 

Daddy growls and holds him *tight* — "She was *forced* into it." 

"I —" 

"She was forced into it, son. The bargain *was* a bad bargain — and here, at least, Death punished the mage for it. According to the All-Mother, Death plans on punishing the mage for it for a long *time* —" 

"It should've been *us*, meneur!" 

"Bloody *that* —" 

"*Agreed*, lads, but — son, are you —" 

"I'm — I'm not all right, but just tell me why the spell still isn't *broken* on them — oh. Mum still *made* the bad bargain." 

Daddy licks his throat. "Sometimes magic is about the forms of things as much as everything else, son — and the death-mage who cursed us all was, apparently, a powerful man. Or still is. To the best of my knowledge, Death doesn't actually kill the people She wants to punish." 

"Yeah, Yejide always said — I." Porthos swallows. "We have to get them." 

"We will." 

"No, I mean —" 

"Now." Daddy shivers. "You're ready to. Oh, son..." 

"Daddy, I — I even have a *plan*. Ah. Ish?" 

Kitos booms a laugh. "You have our full attention, lad!"


	8. A cuddle of Porthi.

As plans go, 'dress himself up in Daddy's biggest-but-not-Uncle-Kitos-sized employee's rattiest clothes and have the All-Mother *put* him in a safe spot *near* the younger Porthos, since the younger Porthos isn't hidden magically from *him*' had seemed pretty decent, really. *Good* for one of his plans. 

It's just that he hadn't taken into account that Daddy makes other nobility look like the literal scum of the *earth*, and so, where other nobility's employees have *real* ratty clothes... 

Porthos had surrendered to the inevitable and worn Baissier's leathers again, and, right now, he's standing here in — thankfully — the shadows looking like the biggest mark to ever make it *into* the Court. 

If *he* were his younger self, he'd mug himself. 

Or something. 

This is going to get confusing in a minute. 

Or less, considering the fact that his younger self has just felt himself being *watched* — 

Porthos has never *seen* himself notice himself being watched before, but, well, he's not subtle — 

No wonder Flea and Charon — and all the others — used to despair of him — 

And — he's moving faster. *Trying* to stay away from the darker alleys — as much as that's *possible* — 

It bloody *isn't* this far into the Court — 

But he isn't going to try to stand and fight for no reason. Good lad — 

Porthos — steps out of the shadows a little. 

With his hands in *sight*. 

The other Porthos spares him a glance and *starts* to walk on — but then pauses to give him a suspicious look. "Are you looking for Yejide? You're too far into the Court for safety. Give me your name and I'll get a message to you when she can help you —" 

"I'm not — all right, it *has* been a while since I've lived here," he says, and steps out of the shadows a little more, smiling ruefully and keeping his hands where the other Porthos can see them. 

He grunts — 

He blinks — 

He *stares* — 

And then he pulls a blade that Porthos knows from *experience* has about nine different curses laid on it. 

Porthos raises his hands higher and nods. "You've been out for Yejide tonight. I did the same when I was your age —" 

"Who — who *are* you!" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "Porthos du Vallon —" 

"*No* —" 

"Porthos. Are you *really* going to act like this *isn't* possible?" 

"I — I..." 

"I'm from a different sphere, mate. And I'm here to get you to your family. To the *rest* of your family. Your *pack*."

He rears back — 

"Yeah, that makes a little sense, doesn't it? You've always been a little doggy —" 

"I haven't —" The other Porthos growls. "Who's your *Mum*." 

"Amina du Vallon. But *my* Mum died — was murdered — when I was five. I know for a fact that yours is still alive — *and missing her pack*." 

"She —" The other Porthos growls again and shakes his head. "How'd you get in here? How — who *sent* you!" 

"*Good* questions. The All-Mother sent me. I know you know who *that* is," he says, and raises his eyebrows. 

The other Porthos nods once. "Keep going." 

"Right you are. I *couldn't* talk to Her before — I hadn't come into my *power*. Yejide told you that you were meant to be an earth-witch, just like Mum. Right?" 

The other Porthos narrows his eyes again. He's getting no joy there. 

"All right. I'll just tell you: The reason why it hasn't happened, yet, is because of the curses on you and your Mum. Your magic is being blocked, mate. By the same set of curses which hid you away from the rest of your pack and made it so your Mum would get sicker if she *told* you anything." 

"But that's not —" 

"Possible...?" 

The other Porthos gives him a *mean* look — 

And Porthos smiles ruefully again. "I know, mate. I *know*. When I found out about all of this, I was ready to murder a *lot* of people. Unfortunately for *both* of us? The people who *needed* to die for doing this to us — to *us* — are already either dead or out of *our* reach." 

"Who *are* they!" 

Porthos prepares to tick off points on his fingers. "Your blood-father — a noble fuck by the name of Belgard who our *real* father strung up by his intestines for setting this all in motion." 

"Uh." 

"That's what I said," Porthos says. "Two: The assassin Belgard hired to kill Mum and you when you were an infant. Our real father cut him to pieces to, in part, get answers." 

The other Porthos stares at him. 

"He's a passionate man, is our Daddy —" 

"I." 

"Mm?" 

"Who put the *curses* on us?" 

"That's a death-witch whose name we don't know, mate. Death herself took care of him — and is, apparently, *continuing* to take care of him." 

"Bloody *hell*..." 

"Yeah, eh?" 

The other Porthos nods slowly. 

"But uh... all of this... I think at least *some* things sound familiar...?" 

The other Porthos licks his lips and nods a little more. "You're — you're a Musketeer." 

"That I am — though not on this sphere. Yet." 

The other Porthos looks at him. "Mum told me... um." 

Porthos inhales sharply. "She told you about her friends. About her *family*." 

"*Yes*, and — she can *show* me things, sometimes. I know where the death-witch who cursed us *lives* —" 

"Shit —" 

"I know that's what that memory *means*, now," the other Porthos says. "And the other memories —" He growls and sheaths the blade in an easy, practiced move. "I know what *all* of them look like, and sound like, and *smell* like. All of her *pack*." 

"Oh —" 

"I know how much she *loves* them, and wants me to *have* them!" 

"Of course she —" 

"She's bloody *asleep*, Porthos! She — if she wakes up, she'll *die*." 

Porthos blinks — and then thinks about it. Just — 

There aren't exactly too many ways a death-witch like Yejide could've kept someone cursed like his Mum was cursed alive. But a sleep that *mimicked* death...

A sleep that *hid* a witch's spirit away, hid her *magic* away from anyone who meant her *harm*... 

And, right now, the other Porthos is looking at him desperately. 

Looking at him like maybe there's been exactly *one* thing he's wanted all his life, and he finally has something like real hope that he can get it. 

And this feeling in Porthos — 

This chance to make something *right* for a *child* — 

It's *not* the reason he'd made himself into a Musketeer. It isn't. 

But it may very well be the reason why he'll *always* be one. 

"Listen, Porthos. Your true father's name is Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville." 

"What? What does that have to do with —" 

"I know, you don't think that matters right now —" 

"I mean — of course I'll thank him for — for —" 

"He doesn't want your gratitude, mate. He's been starving for you — for *both* you and your Mum — for fourteen *years*." 

The other Porthos rears back a little —

Porthos shakes his head. "Don't think about that right now. Just think about his *name*. Learn it. Hold *onto* it. Hold it in your *head*." 

"Because..." And the other Porthos blinks and nods. "Yejide always said she thought the curses had logomancy wrapped up in them. That's *why* I've been learning how to read and write —" 

Porthos claps him on the shoulder. "I know it. I did the *exact* same thing." 

"What do I have to *do* with his name, Porthos?" 

"Hold onto it. Look the man in the *eye* while you're doing it. And —" But. How many times had he thought about *his* Treville's name while looking at him? 

He would've *had* to have done it at least once, right?

Right...?

*Did* the man know?

"Porthos? Is there something else?" 

Porthos shakes himself *exactly* like the dog he's becoming. "We *think* he's going to have to take some of your blood —" 

"What just happened to you?" And the other Porthos narrows his eyes suspiciously. 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I started thinking about the Treville from my sphere, mate. I didn't *know* he was my true father. I didn't know... hardly anything *substantive* about him. I don't know if *he* knows I'm his *son*." 

"But..." 

Porthos lets his smile turn wry. "Daddy *bit* me, mate. *Right* where *Mum* had bit me when I was *five*." 

"But why did he *bite* you?" 

"Because dog-shifters are *often* tempted to do things like that with the people they're *powerfully* attracted to — and more than a little in love with. We uh... we had a *bit* of a shock, there." 

"But we *both* look like Mum!" 

"We were hidden, mate. Daddy — and the rest of the pack — have been staring *fixedly* at me trying to figure out how the bloody hell they *missed* it. The closest anyone came to figuring it out before the bite?" 

"What?" 

Porthos rubs his hand back over his scarf and raises his eyebrows. 

"Oh — I didn't even — but that's not one of Mum's *nice* scarves. Her *bright* ones." 

"Nah. Those were all battered to hell by the time I was an adult. But Uncle Kitos kept getting a little brain-tickle about this one." 

"Oh — which one is *he*?" 

"The bloody *huge* one, with all the hair in the *world*," Porthos says, and grins. "He's *great*. You're going to love him. You're going to love *all* of them. Let's —" 

"I..." And the other Porthos swallows and looks down. 

"Mate...?"

"What about my *family*," he says, and *glares* up at Porthos. 

"Your —" But then Porthos has to *stop*, because this Porthos is still only *fourteen*, and that means — 

Fuck, fuck, so many of the other kids are still *alive* — 

So many of them can still be *helped* — he grins at the other Porthos. "Do you *really* think that *you* could grow into someone who'd desert his brothers for the first good thing to come along? His *sisters*?" 

The other Porthos *blushes* — 

And Porthos chucks his chin. "We'll get them *help*, mate. Daddy will *absolutely* try to talk every last one of them into the garrison — *including* the girls, because there are a million things they'll be able to do there, *too*, and because that's where *he* spends all his time —" 

"*Oh* —" 

"But if they don't want to go there? There's his manor, or his rooms in the city, or our Uncle Laurent's — he's the tall and more serious and formal one — manor, or *his* rooms in the city —" 

"*Fuck*." 

"Yeah, eh? *We will make this work*. Now. Let's start breaking these sodding *curses*." 

"Can we — I want. I want him to heal Mum. First. I want to see him *do* that," the other Porthos says, and his voice is shaking, and his eyes are wet, and his hands are clenched into *young* fists, and — 

Porthos swallows and nods. "Take me to her. I'll do the rest."


	9. Treville will never actually resent that treatment.

The attic is — crowded. 

Treville's pack is all here — even Laurent and Marie-Angelique — in this death-witch's house in the heart of the Court of Miracles — 

It had been an *interesting* journey via the judicious use of the All-Mother — 

Marie-Angelique still looks a little dazed *and* aroused — 

The death-witch herself — Yejide, and addressing her by an honorific had gotten him a foul look — looks ready to hex them all to one of the *hells* — 

Porthos is here, though, at his side, tall and strong and strengthening *him* with his big, perfect hand on Treville's shoulder. 

Treville can't —

Somewhere, in Yejide's shadows that not even Treville's augmented eyes can pierce, the *younger* Porthos is here — 

The son he'd *lost* — 

He won't let Treville *see* him, even though Treville can *feel* that he'd broken the curse — 

He's close enough to *touch*, but he won't — 

"Steady, Daddy," Porthos says, low and even. 

Treville — grunts. And realizes he'd been growling. And gleaming into the thick shadows just as if he were about to *pounce* — 

He can't do that. He *won't* do that. 

He stands straight, and he reaches for his jackal — no. 

He reaches for the All-Mother, just the way She'd taught him — and She fills him and caresses him and *warms* him. 

Calms him. 

The death-witch — Yejide — raises a well-arched eyebrow at him. 

Treville nods once — 

And some of the thick shadows dissipate, revealing about nine more square feet of attic. Enough space for a neat, small bed and not much more. 

Enough space for his. 

For his Amina-love, and she's so thin, and so grey, and so — 

He moves to her side *immediately*, and her flesh is cool, and hard, and no, he can't, he can't be too late, he can't be too *late* — 

The All-Mother *yanks* his lead — 

Treville *grunts* — and sees her breathe. Once. 

Just once... and then nothing. 

For a very, very long —

This... He licks his lips. "I don't know this magic, Yejide." 

"Your Mother does," she says, as clipped and cold as she's been about everything.

And that really says it all, doesn't it? 

They'd gotten *into* this mess in *part* because they'd tried to hide from the goddess they damned well *belong* to. 

If his pack has taught him *anything*, it's that he was never meant to hide. 

"Right you are," Treville says, and pulls on Fearless like leathers, like his sword-belt, like — 

Oh, but he can feel the All-Mother's *amusement* as much as he can feel Her *power*, feel Her *joy* in him in *this* moment, and know that, to Her, he was always beautiful, always perfect, always exactly the son She wanted to have — 

And he's peeling off his gloves and opening himself more — 

And he's yanking back the covers and opening himself more — 

And he can hear voices, words, but She has him now, has him filled, has him — 

And he's laying his hands on his Amina-love's (mate) forehead and on her mound — 

And Mother says yes fills him yes rides him yes flows — 

Through — 

He's always had to give his Amina-love everything about him — 

(A Mother gives Her children everything.) 

He's always had to give his Amina-love everything that *mattered* — 

(A Mother gives Her children life.) 

He's always had to surrender, give over, give every last thing, every last — 

(No.)

And Treville is faintly aware of having his lead yanked *again* — 

He could really start to *resent* this kind of — 

Treatment — 

Black.


	10. In which Treville is not drunk, but is definitely still an arse.

Treville wakes up because he's being slapped, which probably means that he's too drunk to be on his back like this. He turns on his side — 

"You are not drunk!" 

"I'm definitely drunk; just look at me —" 

"*Fool* of a dog!" 

Treville grunts and wakes *up*, because — 

Because his Amina is straddling him and glaring down at him like the most beautiful death of nations ever to — 

"Fuck, smack me *again*!" 

Her glare gets *meaner* for a second — but then she brings her smacking hand to her mouth and starts to weep. 

"Oh, no, no," Treville says, sitting up and wrapping her up tight in his arms, feeling the last of the truly *excessive* amount of power the All-Mother had given him flowing back out of him and down through the wood of the house into the earth. 

"You — you *fool*," she says thickly, and squeezes him back, and she's lean, so hard, so *lean*, but not actually *thin* anymore — 

She's warm and right and — 

She — 

But she was saying something. "I'm definitely a fool, and I will absolutely not — what did I do wrong again?" 

She *caws* a *wet* laugh — 

His brothers are laughing and crying, too — 

And. He can smell that *both* Porthoses have started to weep — 

Treville strokes his Amina-love and sniffs her, rocks her, holds her right there on the attic floor, tries to — 

No, he can't think. He's not going to try. 

Somebody else can think right now. 

"That's — that's *right*," she says, and bites him hard on the cheek — 

"You can absolutely do the thinking, Amina-love; I was never built for it —" 

"You — you..." 

"Please don't ever leave me again," he says, and he means to make it loud, and hard, and *right*, but it comes out small and needy, small and *desperate* — 

She croons and squeezes him and now they're rocking each *other*, and it's so good, so *good* — 

"I love you, I love you, I love — I've been so *broken* —" 

"I was *empty*, my brother, my sweet brother — but you *fool*," she says, and smacks the back of his head. 

"Yes, I'm — please hit me all the time — I missed it —" 

"I will make *Ife* beat you — oh. Is she..." 

"She lives on my lands; she beats me all the time — but — please tell me why —" 

"You tried to give *your* life to me!" 

"Oh. That. I..." 

"Wait, wait, he did bloody *what*?" 

"Porthos —" 

"Bloody — *Fearless*!" 

"Brother," Laurent says, "I am currently holding Reynard back. I do not *have* to." 

Treville *coughs* a laugh. "I thought it was the only way. That's all. I thought — I had to give my son — my *sons* — their *mother*." 

"And not their *father*?" And then Amina punches him. Right — 

Right under the ribs. 

Treville licks his lips and grins. "Does it make a difference for you all to know that the All-Mother disapproved of this plan?" 

Amina punches him again. 

And *again* — 

And then she gets *up* — 

"I — oh, all *right*, I won't do it *again*," he says, and stands up and reaches for her. "Please come back —" 

She crosses her arms under her breasts, which are still just as perfect, just as — 

Mm...

And — that was the snicker of a teenaged boy. 

Right in that corner over — there. Treville looks, and, for a moment, can see nothing but Yejide's disapproving stare and more *shadows* — 

And then there's a quick inhalation of breath — 

"Sweet *boy*." 

"Oh fuck," the younger Porthos says — mutters — and steps right out into the light, blushing and staring back and forth between Treville and Amina. 

He's just as tall as he should be, given how he's meant to grow up, and his hair is a *somewhat* wild mass of curls — he'd obviously tried to tame it at some point recently, and Treville just wants to shove his muzzle in it and ruin *all* of his good work —

And his eyes are wide and bright and intelligent — 

And he's trying so hard not to shift on his *feet* — 

And — Treville can stop staring. For now. It's enough to be *able* to see him, to be able to see him *and* know him for *precisely* who he *is* —

He grins helplessly — and tips the hat he isn't wearing, and dashes a tear or two away, and then turns to lick his Amina-love's mouth. "Thank you *very* much for that." 

"You are *welcome*, my husband. I *know* my sweet boy has taken *many* memories of you — of *all* of you! — from me while I was sleeping," she says, and *looks* at the younger Porthos. 

"I *know*, Mum, it's just that... it's different. Part of me wasn't expecting to *ever* meet them and have them be *real*." 

Amina's expression crumples a little and she goes to him immediately, pulling him into her arms and holding him close — "My sweet boy is so tall..." 

"I —" 

"I did not mean to sleep so long, Porthos." 

"I know, Mum —" 

"I *knew* your father would find a way to make it right. I *always* knew." 

The younger Porthos shivers and clutches her.

Treville swallows and moves to tug their *other* Porthos out of the shadows he was doing a terrible job of trying to fade into while everyone was focused on Amina. "I couldn't have done it without *this* Porthos, Amina-love." 

"I — Daddy — I mean —" 

"Don't backslide, son," Treville says, and cups the back of his neck. "You'll always be mine." 

"Fuck — but —" 

"You *heard* notre meneur, neveu," Reynard says. "Do not make us make you *hurt*." 

In truth, Porthos looks a little glassy-eyed for that — 

The *younger* Porthos is *blinking* — 

Right, well, they're all going to have to do a lot of talking about a lot of different things, but — "Amina-love." 

"I hear you, my sweet brother. And I..." She smiles ruefully at Porthos while continuing to stroke and pet the younger Porthos. Her colour is right again, and her eyes are bright and clear, but she's too lean — 

He has to feed his mate — 

She snorts. "Sweet brother." 

Treville blinks and *focuses*. "Right you are, Amina-love. Back to the subject at hand." 

"I... am at a loss," she says, and smiles wider. "But not in a bad way." 

Porthos smiles back cautiously. "I um. No?" 

She moves closer, still gloriously nude, and still holding the younger Porthos. She reaches up to stroke Porthos's soft beard with her strong, hard hand. "Have you grown up into a good man?"

Porthos shivers again. "I — I always — I tried to grow into the man I thought would most make you proud, Mum." 

She looks him over, and strokes the leathers — and frowns. "These are *not* yours. They do not fit well enough." 

Porthos coughs into his fist. "The leathers we wear on my sphere... they uh. Have a lot more *style*. If you catch my meaning. Though Daddy's leathers looked just the same as they do here." 

Kitos coughs around the word 'dandy'. 

Porthos coughs around the word 'arsehole'. 

Kitos thunders laughter — 

Amina grins — and grins at Marie-Angelique, as if they are continuing a silent conversation they had only left off a few hours ago. 

Marie-Angelique hums knowingly — 

*Wickedly* — 

*Secretively* — 

Her cheeks are wet. 

Amina bites her lip and reaches for her — 

"Not yet, sweet sister," Marie-Angelique says, and pulls out a handkerchief. "Please. Speak with your *sons*." 

"My." Amina licks her lips and nods thoughtfully, reaching up to stroke Porthos's beard again. 

"I'll tell you anything, Mum — I. I mean, I don't have to call you that —" 

"But you want to." 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I don't have to. But yeah, I do," he says, and wipes away one of his own tears. "It's so good to see you." 

"You are... kind, and loving, and sweet, and open, and fair, and open-*minded*... all of this. All of this *still*." 

"That's right. I've never seen the good in being anything else." 

"Not even in the Court of *Miracles*, sweet boy?" 

Porthos shivers. "The way I see it, Mum?" 

"Tell me. *Please*." 

"There's light and love and hope *everywhere* you find people — and there's people pretty much everywhere. The All-Mother wouldn't have it any other way, eh? So there's no real point in being an arsehole, because all *that* gets you in the end is stomped down into the gutter by a bigger arsehole — or someone like *me* — whereas if you *are* someone like me? All *sorts* of people are *invested* in keeping you happy, and warm, and fed, and surrounded with good things — good things like *family*." 

Amina gives Porthos a *hurt* look for that — but the younger Porthos just nods decisively, like maybe he'd figured that exact same philosophy out for himself at some terrifyingly young age. 

(No younger than seven or so, Daddy.) 

Fuck. 

(That didn't help, did it.) 

No, son, but thank you, Treville says, and turns back to his Amina-love with his eyebrows up. 

She raises her own eyebrows. "*When* did you bite him, sweet brother? When did you *bind* him." 

"At the end of a long and not-quite-illuminating-*enough* day —" 

"Before or *after* you fucked him." 

The younger Porthos chokes quietly — 

Amina pets him —

Yejide is leaning against the attic wall and smiling like a *demon* — 

And the rest of his pack is waiting for *him* to take the lead, because they've been too long *without* Amina, and because Marie-Angelique is keeping her own counsel for the time being. Treville nods. "Before. I needed him — I *loved* him — before I bit him. After I knew who he was?" 

"There was nothing that could stop you, my husband...?" 

"I was —" 

Porthos growls. "*I* could've stopped him, Mum. I'm not a teenager. I'm not inexperienced with men. I'm not even inexperienced with *pack*-sex — and I doubt *your* Porthos is, either —" 

"You are *both* mine! I —" And Amina flushes and growls, low and hard and animal and — just right. 

Treville's ears flatten to his head — 

Amina's eyes flare maroon and she growls even even *harder* — 

Treville flares his nostrils — "Tell me what you need, Amina-love. Tell me *exactly* what you need, because I have *every* intention of making sure you spend the rest of your life *getting* it." 

"And our *sons*, Treville?"

"Our *pack*." 

She flares *her* nostrils — and shivers, smiling ruefully and very obviously standing *down*. 

Treville blinks. "Amina-love?" 

"My husband." 

Treville *grunts* —

"I could never forget what those words do to you, but... having you here, like this... it means so much more," she says, and cups his cheek. 

He turns enough to lick her hard, callused palm. "Tell me, Amina-love. Tell me what —" 

"Ask our *younger* son this question, please. Our son who has *just* learned that his *father* — the man his mother has made him all but *idolize* —" 

"*Mum*!" 

"— is, at the very least, entirely capable of making love with the version of him from another *sphere*." 

Porthos coughs beside him and blushes. 

The *younger* Porthos *stares* and blushes — 

Amina *looks* at him — 

Treville licks his lips — "Right you are, Amina-love," he says, and turns to the younger Porthos. "What can I —" 

"Um!" 

"Mm?"

The younger Porthos coughs — 

Looks back and forth between Treville and Porthos — 

Blushes *harder* — 

Treville smiles wryly. "Ask anything, son. Ask *everything*." 

The younger Porthos takes a deep *breath* — 

"And do that, too —" 

"Yes, sweet boy, that is *very* good," Amina says, and pets — both Porthoses at once. 

The older Porthos beams like the sun rising over a battlefield full of dead Spaniards... right up until he catches that thought, at which point he stares at Treville like he's mad in problematic ways. 

Treville winks at him. 

"Hit him, sweet boy. It is the *only* way to get him to behave." 

"I — right," Porthos says, and smacks the back of Treville's head *hard* — 

Treville staggers — 

Snickers — 

"Would dead Savoyards have been better —" 

"No! Bloody —" 

Treville snickers more — 

He hasn't felt this light in *years* — 

In — fourteen years. 

"Um." 

Treville licks his lips and breathes himself back to something like adulthood, turning back to the younger Porthos. "Yes, son?" 

"Do you *also* fuck boys? Like... boys my age?" 

Treville *coughs* —

And Kitos shakes the *rafters* with this laugh, which is dangerous, considering what Amina's stomping *guffaws* must be doing to the floor. 

The rest of his pack is only somewhat more decorous about things, including Marie-Angelique, who is *absolutely* feeling the boning in that corset right about now. 

Even Yejide had let out a mean-spirited little 'heh'. 

Porthos pats the younger Porthos's shoulder. "I don't know about you, mate, but I actually find this kind of thing pretty soothing if, you know, in kind of an annoying way." 

The younger Porthos nods. "Oh, yeah. It's always better when an adult can laugh about what a pillock they are." 

Porthos nods judiciously. 

Kitos is holding his *belly*. 

Amina... 

"Oh, sweet brother, your *face*!" And then she's off on another round of cackles and stomps and honking and — 

And Treville sighs happily and doesn't remotely try to put a stop to it. He just watches.

He just lives in it. 

"You like it when Mum laughs at you," the younger Porthos says thoughtfully. 

Treville turns back to him *immediately*. "I love it when your mother *laughs*... but especially when it has *anything* to do with me. And, yes, I know *precisely* what a ridiculous man I am, even though I'm only doing it on purpose some of the time, son," he says, and smiles. "I make love to people — I don't fuck them, and I will not ever commit rape. This limits the whoring I do dramatically, and I don't mind that in the *slightest*. I love making love with my pack most of all, but that doesn't mean that I haven't enjoyed making love with people outside of it — including boys your age, or a little younger.

"Never girls that young — and I am *very* much aware of the hypocrisy there, but your mother likes it very much —" 

Amina snorts *hard* — 

"— and never *anyone* so young that they couldn't enjoy what was happening at least as much as I was, or fully understand what was happening. I will not ever be a predator. Does that answer — no." Treville strokes his beard and smiles a little more wryly. "I will not be spending my time trying to jump down your trousers, son. Even if I *do* become attracted to you, that's not the sort of man I am. I would not put that sort of pressure on a boy who was not in that line of work, or who did not, in some way, indicate that they would welcome flirtation. In the past, I was *exactly* that much of a pillock, but I have learned better." 

The older Porthos gives him a studying look for that — 

Treville grins at him. "I've had a lot of long, substantive conversations with a *lot* of whores, son." 

*That* gets a judicious nod. "Good." 

Reynard clears his throat. "Notre meneur, he has taught *all* of us these lessons, neveux," he says, and looks to both Porthoses. 

"Aye, lads. You'll not have to worry about us being *that* kind of arsehole," Kitos says, and raises his eyebrows. 

And Amina moves back into petting-range of their sons, and starts right up again, stroking the older Porthos's back and the younger Porthos's hair. "Sweet boys, I needed many of these lessons *myself*." 

They both blink at her *adorably*. 

"*Oh*, yes. What, do you think, did your mama know of whores and whoring before I came to the Court of Miracles, mm? I was a slave, but I was a *house* slave. I was on the street, but for only a *little* while before my guardians scooped me up and bundled me home! Then I was sheltered *utterly* until I took my freedom, but that is just it — I had *freedom*. My own home, my own money, and men I *chose*," she says, and nods to the pack. "What does this tell you?" 

The younger Porthos looks a bit dazed — 

The older Porthos — "Uh. You had a lot to learn." 

"*Just* so, sweet boy. If it hadn't been for the lessons your father — and Uncles! — gave me in such things? We would have been in *even more trouble* when we got here!" 

Yejide snorts. 

Amina hums. "*Yes*, Yejide. I *remember* how hopeless I was," she says, and shakes her head. 

"You knew how to listen. That was... enough." 

Amina cocks her head to the side, *just* like she's wondering what else Yejide hadn't said — 

(Later, sweet brother. She is a private woman.) 

All right — 

Aloud, Amina says, "I cannot ever thank you enough for everything you have done for me and Porthos, Yejide. I *smell* that you have continued to train him even while I could do little but take up space —" 

"You." Yejide's jaw tenses for a long moment — 

Her countenance *blanks* of any expression at *all* — 

~

Time for multiple endings!


	11. Ending 1, Part 1: She sat by that bed every night.

"You." Yejide's jaw tenses for a long moment — 

Her countenance *blanks* of any expression at *all* — 

And then she *glares* at Amina. "You will not speak about yourself that way, girl. Not in my house." 

Amina inhales sharply and *stares* at Yejide — 

And then she smiles, bright and broad and helpless. "No, Yejide. No, I will not. Now. Where are my *clothes*? We must get home, and eat, and discuss everything that has happened..." She reaches up and scrubs a tear away — 

Treville leans in and licks her fingers. 

The younger Porthos hugs her tightly — 

The older Porthos hugs her *cautiously* — 

"*Harder*!" 

— until he fixes that, of course. 

The rest of the pack comes close, squeezing tighter and tighter and — 

So *good* — but. 

Treville turns to Yejide, who is moving to straighten the narrow bed just as if... he shakes his head. "Yejide." 

"What is it, boy." 

"Anything you need. Anything you *want* —" 

She waves him off like a fly. 

He wasn't truly expecting anything else, but — "It would be a gift to me — and to the family you've made your own, as well — if you would consent to visit us from time to time, in any one of our homes." 

That stops her. Just... stops her. 

Treville can feel Amina watching him and *hoping* — 

Treville can feel *both* Porthoses doing the same — 

And... Yejide never turns away from the bed. 

But she does nod. 

Treville grins, and sweeps off his hat as he makes a leg — 

"*Fool* of a dog! Let us *go*." 

That is *exactly* what they do.


	12. Ending 1, Part 2: The rules may have, in fact, changed.

Daddy, Uncle Kitos, and Uncle Reynard had gone over Porthos's strengths and weaknesses with him *thoroughly* — more thoroughly than anyone other than *Athos* ever had — and it makes absolute sense. 

Daddy takes the training of the young *seriously* — it's what he's made for, in a *lot* of ways, and the part of Porthos which insists that Daddy is made to be the *Captain* needs to bloody catch up. 

When he'd gotten to the garrison on his own sphere, way back when, he'd interrogated every man there about who they'd learned which skill from *when*, and the sheer number of times he'd gotten the answer 'the Captain, of course'... 

Well, it was a lot. 

And Porthos gets to see it *every* day now. It's not that Daddy stints on his own training — it's that he'll bloody well stay until the sun's down if he has to, *just* to make sure all the recruits have gotten all the help *they* needed. 

They're all like that, really. 

And, while they were quizzing Porthos about *his* strengths and weaknesses in order to get a better idea about how to teach the *younger* Porthos — well, they have absolutely *all* been teaching *him* a fuck of a lot of tricks. 

Uncle Laurent's been ramping up his swordplay every chance he gets to *do* it — 

Uncle Kitos has been teaching him tricks he'd picked up to help an honestly *huge* man increase his speed and stealth — 

Uncle Reynard has been teaching him bloody *terrifying* things to do with knives, and, really, Porthos would dearly love to introduce him to some of the ladies of custom he's known over the years — 

And when he'd *said* that to the man, Uncle Reynard had laughed, kissed his cheeks, and made Porthos promise to bring that suggestion up the next time they were all looking for ideas for a night *out* — 

Daddy... 

Daddy's been teaching him how to teach. 

*Showing* him how, showing him with his gentleness, and his care, and his *absolute* patience even in the face of teenage frustration and general *madness*. 

They've got a house *full* of kids now, thanks to the younger Porthos being convincing about things, and that's... 

That's warm and strange and wild and — so many other things. 

So many other things Porthos doesn't always know how to *touch*. 

Right now, Porthos is watching Daddy lead the no-longer-ragged-in-the-*slightest* army of kids in their morning conditioning in the courtyard. After this, there'll be a frighteningly massive breakfast that everyone will devour to the crumbs. 

After *that*? Three full carriages will damned well roll their way to the garrison, led by him and Daddy on horseback. 

But... but. 

Flea is here — or the skinny little *scrapper* she used to be. 

Charon is the shy boy right next to her. He follows her everywhere — when he's not following the younger Porthos. 

All the others are there, too — nearly. 

They hadn't been in time to save everyone, though. Not Didier. 

Not the boy who'd *helped* teach the boy Porthos used to be *how* to be the kind of person who *could* gather a large family to himself and *keep* it together. 

That — that had hurt. 

So had being *introduced* to all of them — and seeing the wary suspicion in eyes that were always supposed to love — 

Not him. 

*Not* him. 

He'd wept like a babe in his Daddy's arms that night. In his Mum's arms, too. It wasn't the first time for that. 

It. 

He's spent a lot of time thinking about the brothers he's apparently lost for good, or at least until Daddy's ally Jason Blood can *trace* the apparently completely sodding mad magical signature that had lingered around Porthos just long enough *for* the man to get a read on it. 

It's not that he wants to leave his *pack*, but — 

But he misses his brothers. 

He always will. 

His parents hold him when he weeps. 

They hold him and they let him *talk* about them, talk himself *hoarse*, and about the other Treville, too — 

They hold him tight and they lick his tears away and they pet him and then — 

And then — 

And then there are other things. 

His Uncles aren't always there, and Mum doesn't — 

They *haven't* —

But Daddy does, and Mum stays right there and — supervises? 'Watches' isn't the right word for it. 'Helps' *also* isn't the right word.

Porthos frowns and tries to think about what to *call* that hard, perfect hand on his face — 

Those dark, familiar eyes *locked* on his own — 

*Focused* on him — 

*In* him — 

Soft, sweet kisses all over his face and Mum's breasts pressed to his *arm* as Daddy fingers him open and takes him *apart*. 

The scents. 

The scents of her *musk* just — all over the bed. 

All over the *suite*. 

Porthos doesn't go to Daddy's suite until after he's heard them... finish. 

He doesn't — 

Just the first *round* — 

And he doesn't stay all *night* — 

Other nights, when his Uncles and Aunt Marie-Angelique *are* there, in whatever combinations they're there, Mum isn't so close. Or — not always so close. 

A few touches. 

All her smiles. 

All her *laughter*, and — those kisses. 

Porthos licks his lips and just — thinks about it. 

The way he hasn't. 

Thinks about Mum *really* kissing him, the way she kisses *Daddy*, so wet and hot and *violent*. 

So harsh and *mean*, sometimes — 

(Not that, son,) *Daddy* says, from — right next to him. 

Fuck, where — 

(The children have gone to wash up for breakfast.) 

Porthos shudders and looks sharp — 

(Not that, either,) Daddy says, and cups his shoulder. (Take a breath and let's talk.) 

I... I can do that, Porthos says, and breathes a little — 

Blushes a *lot* — 

But keeps breathing. Just — 

He's qualified for that. 

Even when Daddy walks them over to the pretty little stone bench which Porthos already knows he pretty much never sits on himself unless he wants to have a deep, emotional conversation with someone — 

Daddy *coughs* as he sits — "I — hm." 

Porthos smiles ruefully and sits beside him. "You're a *bit* obvious, Daddy, but it suits you." 

"Thank you, son. How are you," he asks, and smiles into Porthos's eyes — 

Cups the back of Porthos's neck — 

Flares his nostrils a little — 

Porthos laughs softly. "I'm — a little wound up." 

Daddy nods. 

"That's it? Just a nod?" 

"Well, you're my first-born son. Dutiful. Honest. Hard-working —" 

Porthos coughs — 

"I already know you're going to tell me all about it without me doing hardly a thing to —" 

"All *right*." 

Daddy hums. "What do you actually *want* with your mother, son? Mm? Because *she* knows what she wants, and is, in fact, only waiting for you." 

"I — oh." 

"Did that help?" 

"I —" 

"No, son. Think about the answer to that question." 

Porthos swallows and nods. 

And — thinks. On the one hand, it's Mum. Of *course* she knows what she wants. She *always* knows what she wants. If she was ever indecisive about anything, she got *incredibly* angry, then angry about *being* angry, and then she damned well *made a decision*. 

On the other hand... he doesn't actually know what decision she made. What if she'd just decided that she likes being gentle with Porthos, and welcoming him into her bed with her husband — her *mate* — but was also really glad to see the back of him when Porthos *left*?

Wouldn't that be...

Porthos winces. 

Porthos winces *hard* — 

"Right, um, I need to go apologize *immediately* —" 

"No, son, you don't, because you've made an *egregious* mistake —" Daddy sighs. "It was necessary, I think. I needed you to know, deep down, that *you* would be disappointed if your mother didn't want you there with all of herself —" 

"Of course I would — but —" 

"Son. She wants you there," Daddy says. And looks at him. 

"Oh." Porthos blinks a few times. 

Licks his lips. 

And — "Oh." 

Porthos thinks about how *no* one in this pack makes a move on young people who aren't in that line of work —

"That's *right*, son." 

"But I'm bloody *grown*!" 

Daddy smiles ruefully, and strokes Porthos's cheek with the fingertips of his free hand. "You have to admit... well." And he raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos blinks again. "I've been letting you all... I'm not exactly putting myself in the same category as the adults, here. As the *other* adults — *fuck* — shit, I have to —" 

Daddy presses two fingers to Porthos's mouth. 

"Mm —" 

"Wait, son. Please," he says, and — that was a request bound *up* with a plea.

Porthos swallows and nods. 

Daddy shivers and growls. "My son. My beautiful —" He growls more and gives himself a shake before *blazing* into Porthos's eyes. "My son. Just this: The rules haven't changed." 

Porthos blinks and frowns behind Daddy's fingers. 

"All right, I suppose I should be a bit more helpful than that. The rules haven't *changed*, son. When I fell in love with you — when *we* fell in love with you —" 

Porthos pulls back — "I was your brother..." 

Daddy takes a hitching breath. He smells so *strained*, so — "That's right, son. And — we said it, remember? Some things only *need* to be true *sometimes* —" 

"No —" 

"It —"

"Bloody *no*, Daddy! I can *smell* this *killing* you!" 

"That doesn't *matter* —" 

Porthos *snarls* —

"Oh — only this. Only this, son: I need your happiness. We all — we need your happiness, and your comfort, and your *satisfaction*. And. We're a lot less likely to treat you like one of the *children* —" 

"Has it bloody *occurred* to you that I'm getting more than one *thing* out of being one of the children?" 

Daddy shivers again — 

Caresses Porthos's *face* — 

"My boy. We will *hoard* every opportunity you give us to raise you. We can't — you were *stolen* from us. Even your mother was forced to *sleep* away from the younger Porthos for nine bloody *years*. I — do you see?" 

Porthos licks his lips — and nods. "I see. You can't help making me your boy — none of you can."

"If —" 

"Shut it, Daddy." 

"*Son* —" 

"*Shut* it, because *I* can't help —" Porthos laughs a little hysterically. "I just — I can bloody *make the first move* if Mum needs me to. I'm *good* at that sort of thing. I will sodding *seduce* her if I have to — I've a fair idea of what sorts of things she *goes* for now —" 

Daddy *coughs* — "You won't — ah. I'm *reasonably* sure that won't be necessary —" 

"Oh, no, sweet brother, no! *Let* my sweet boy seduce me! He has grown up charming and wise, *unlike* you," Mum says, and she's grinning from ear to ear as she walks up to join them — 

She's wearing one of her bright scarves *around* her hair, as opposed to completely over it, because Daddy had confessed that seeing the cloud of her hair out in the air was like seeing her naked all the time and left him hard as *stone* more often than not — 

Her wrap-dress *doesn't* match it, because it's actually one that Ife had in storage from when she was a *teenager* — she's still *really* lean — but the colours complement *very* nicely — 

She's bloody gorgeous, and he and Daddy are *absolutely* staring like idiots — 

Until she's close enough to slap them both a few times — *mostly* gently. 

Daddy hums. "And good morning to you, too, Amina-love. You're looking as beautiful as ever, and — you haven't eaten. Why —" 

"Shut it, I wanted to talk to our *older* boy," she says, and cups Porthos's face with both hands. "Sweet *boy*. You have made your decisions...?" 

"Always for you, Mum —" 

"You..." And Mum smiles wryly. 

"Mm? What is it, Mum? What can I do?" 

"Shh. I am only thinking of my *other* son, and what he will think..." 

"We'll all talk to him, Mum. Make sure he knows that he'll *never* be pressured —" 

"That's *right* —" 

She smacks them again — 

"Or... not? Mum?" 

"At *this* point, my loves, he must come to know that he is not *inferior*," she says, and *looks* at them. 

Daddy blinks stupidly. 

Porthos isn't doing much better, but — "Uh. I. But..." 

"*Yes*, sweet boy. *Even if he continues to not desire any of the adults*," she says, and *glares* at them. 

Daddy strokes his beard. "More cuddling as a pack?" 

"Yes, sweet brother. And more talking, and more petting, and more — more *time*. We must be a pack with the doors *open* to the children, as well." 

Porthos grins. "That sounds bloody great. I think Thomas wanted to teach us all some of his favourite card games —" 

Daddy hums. "And you've wanted to teach us how to cheat at them, son?" 

"I would *never* —" 

Mum snorts hard. "This is *good*. We cannot all be grunting and sweating with practice-swords —" 

"Or ivory phalluses," Daddy says. 

"Or ivory phalluses," Mum agrees — 

"Oh, yeah," Porthos says. "Not *all* the time." 

They nod judiciously together. 

And then Mum grins broad and bright and gorgeous — 

She hauls them to their feet — 

She hugs them *viciously* tight — 

And then she takes their hands and leads them into the house. "Now, sweet brother. *Now* you may continue your program of attempting to give me an arse as fat as Marie-Angelique's." 

"I think he would settle for you having an arse as fat as mine, Mum." 

Daddy coughs — 

Mum *chokes* — 

*Hoots* — 

And cackles shamelessly and perfectly right through the halls. 

Porthos would follow that laugh — absolutely anywhere. 

end.


	13. Ending 2, Part 1: My boyfriend's alternate universe self is back and we might be totally fucked. Hey-la, hey-la.

Amina hums. "*Yes*, Yejide. I *remember* how hopeless I was," she says, and shakes her head. 

"You knew how to listen. That was... enough." 

Amina cocks her head to the side, *just* like she's wondering what else Yejide hadn't said — 

(Later, sweet brother. She is a private woman.) 

All right — 

Aloud, Amina says, "I cannot ever thank you enough for everything you have done for me and Porthos, Yejide. I *smell* that you have continued to train him even while I could do little but take up space —" 

"You." Yejide's jaw tenses for a long moment — 

Her countenance *blanks* of any expression at *all* — 

And then she narrows her eyes in a dark, cold smile that has everyone in the room reaching for a weapon *except* for Amina and the Porthoses. 

"*Wait*, my pack. Yejide has a message for us, from the other side of life," Amina says, and moves far too *close* to Yejide for comfort. "What is it?"

For a moment, there's only more of that *smile*, which is making Treville's *bollocks* creep, and he would've thought that was bad *enough* — 

But. 

But then Yejide *swivels* her head on her neck until she's looking directly at the older Porthos — 

Her smile gets slicker, broader, *hungrier* — 

"Uhh. Yejide?" 

And then Yejide grunts, slumping into Amina's arms like a marionette with cut strings while the air fills with the sound of eldritch *screaming*. 

This time, Treville pulls his bloody *sword*, and so do his brothers and Porthos as they do their best to herd Marie-Angelique, Amina, Yejide, and the younger Porthos into the center of their defensive square — 

When the younger Porthos tries to protest about being treated like a child, Amina gives him a look that shuts him right down, but — 

But. 

Yejide walks out of the square and barks a laugh, pushing Treville's sword down. "That won't help, boy." 

"What won't — never mind. Please explain what's *happening*, Yejide —"

She growls. "Jason Blood is hunting your boy. Any *number* of the people he's murdered over the centuries are looking forward to having someone else to commiserate about it with. Happily, one of them chose to explain."

Treville blinks — "I — Jason is an *ally* — we've worked together —" 

"*Not* your Blood, boy. One from a different *sphere*." 

Laurent frowns. "Do you have a cellar, Yejide." 

She nods. "I will take your wife and the younger Porthos there —" 

"And *Amina* —" 

Amina snarls and smacks him exactly hard enough to remind Treville that she's a shifter. 

Treville gives himself a shake. "Right you are, Amina-love. *Please shift*." 

"Hrr," she says, and does just that, and for a moment — 

For a moment, all Treville can do is stare at the beautiful waves of her dark coat — 

The liquid shine of her eyes — 

Her long muzzle — 

Her deceptively delicate limbs — 

She lolls her tongue at him. 

"Um." 

Treville turns — 

And finds the younger Porthos staring up at him incredulously. Which —

"I'm a *dog*, son." 

"Explain that to him, *later*, Fearless —" 

"Yes, *do*," Marie-Angelique says, reaching down to scratch behind Amina's right ear before taking the younger Porthos's hand. "Let us begin getting to know one another while the rest of our pack does what they do best." 

"I. All right?" 

"Excellent! After you, Yejide." 

And then... then it's just a matter of waiting.


	14. Ending 2, Part 2: The people who love you are always infinitely more terrifying than the people who don't. It's almost always better to face your fears.

Porthos isn't *quite* sure how terrified he should be right now. On the one hand, he's *reasonably* sure it's somewhere between 'very' and 'oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck', but on the other hand, he's got Treville right here on his left, and *Mum* and *Yejide* — back up from making the non-combatants as safe as they *can* be — right here on his right. 

His entire *life* is telling him that if he relaxes and follows instructions, literally everything will be just fine. 

Especially since Mum keeps lolling her tongue like that. 

He pats her. 

"You're a wonderful young man, son." 

"Thank you, sir — I mean Daddy —" 

"Son, I'll be perfectly honest: If it's making you feel better right now to call me sir'? You can call me sir." 

"No, no, I really want to call the *Captain* sir." 

"I'd much rather have you call me Uncle," Laurent says, and continues scanning his section of their perimeter. 

"Yeah? I mean. We haven't gotten to spend that much time —" 

"In that small period of time, you proved yourself kind, loving, giving, honourable, brave, forthright... mm. Many other things. The fact that my brothers have fallen entirely in love with you since then only confirms my original estimation, as does everything I can sense from you now that Treville has shared blood with me."

Porthos blushes *hard*. "Oh. Um. Well... I'll only call you sir at the garrison —" 

"*Shut* it," Yejide says, and nods toward the darkest corner of the room. 

That — 

It's *too* dark — 

The darkness is *moving* — slowly, but — 

Shit, shit — 

Porthos reaches for the cursed blade *he* hasn't carried since the last assignment he'd done for Yejide when he was twenty — 

He curses *himself* a little and adjusts his grip on his rapier, instead — 

And maybe refamiliarizes himself with everything *else* in this room which can be used as a weapon just in *case* — 

You never bloody *know* — 

If all else fails, he *will* toss this Blood bloke out the bloody *window* — 

And the darkness — the shadows — are still just... moving slowly. 

*Gently*, like. 

It — 

Daddy growls — "Oh, for fuck's sake, Blood, stop pissing about!" 

Porthos blinks — 

Mum *glares* at Daddy — 

Yejide shows her *teeth* — and abruptly she just *is* wearing that full-arm *gauntlet* that lets her do *extremely sodding scary things* with the undead. 

Mum stops glaring at Daddy and pushes Porthos a little further *away* from Yejide — 

Daddy's still growling at the *shadows* — 

Porthos can *tell* the rest of the pack doesn't really know *what* to think — 

And — then there's laughter. Low, rich, quiet laughter — honestly hard to catch under all the eldritch screaming still going on, but — 

Porthos can still tell that it's honest, and that it's *not* mean-spirited. 

He lifts his nose a little — perfume. Smoke. Metal. 

Male sweat and a *lot* of bloody power — 

"I truly don't mean *any* of you *any* harm," the man — Blood? — says, in an educated British voice. 

"*Other* Jasons know how to make an entrance without putting my hackles up, Blood," Daddy says. 

"Yes, well, you're not *usually* in the home of a witch who has literally *hundreds* of undead *creatures* *enslaved*, man! They *dislike* me. The feeling is *mutual*." 

Well, that's a point. But — 

"You will note, good woman," Blood says, "that I have harmed not one eldritch tentacle of your... staff, on my way here." 

Porthos looks to Yejide.

Yejide narrows her eyes thoughtfully — and the screaming stops. 

They all breathe a little easier — until the whispered chant of 'kill him' starts up. 

Blood sighs. Tiredly. "Perhaps we can discuss that which we need *to* discuss *without* the chorus of the damned?" 

The chant gets louder and more desperate — 

More hungry — 

And then Yejide twitches her gauntleted pinky finger. This time, the silence is immediate and lasting. 

"Thank you *very* much —" 

"*What* do you *think* you need to discuss with us, Blood," Daddy says, and — he hasn't actually lowered his sword. 

"Returning Porthos to *my* sphere, Treville. Returning Porthos to... to the men who love him desperately, and whom he loves quite well, himself," Blood says, and just. Lets that sit there. 

Daddy's hand never shakes — 

Daddy's jaw never tightens — 

Daddy never even narrows his *eyes* — 

"Fearless..." 

Daddy bares his *teeth* — and stops that immediately. "I think it's time for you to show yourself, Blood." 

"Are you *quite* sure about —" 

"*Don't* fence." 

"Only this, Treville: I believe this discussion would be better suited to the people whom it impacts directly. *My* Treville — and Aramis, and Athos, are all very much hoping for the opportunity to... plead their case." 

Porthos squeezes his eyes shut. He — 

Fuck, he bloody *can't* — 

What is he supposed to — no. 

No, he has to be a man about this. If he's *going* to leave his brothers, he's damned well going to tell them *why*. 

He swallows, then, and he sheaths his sword, and he steps forward. A little. 

"Son —" 

"I'll talk to them. They — they should know why, Daddy." 

Daddy inhales sharply —

"Oh, lad..." Uncle Kitos makes a soft sound. "We're right here. We're *right bloody here*." 

"*Oui*." 

"Yes," Uncle Laurent says, quiet and firm, and — 

And Mum sits down, right on his foot. 

Porthos laughs a little breathlessly — 

Mum lolls her tongue — 

Daddy moves up beside him, sheathing his sword — "I have the best mate." 

"That's *right*, you do," Porthos says, and watches the shadows dissipate, revealing a somehow *distressing* smudge on the air. 

An unfamiliar man steps out first — he's a little shorter than Daddy, and he's wearing bloody *chain mail* over dark green wool, and he's got a bloody *bastard* sword strapped to his back — 

But Daddy just nods as the man pushes the coif of his mail back, revealing long hair that's a darker red than Reynard's. "Blood." 

Blood inclines his head and doesn't say a word.

And then...

And then Aramis steps through with his eyes closed, and he's beautiful from his head to his heels, he's always been so beautiful, so — 

And he's never once belonged to Porthos. 

Athos steps through next, and it looks like he hasn't slept in days, which, with him, usually means that he hasn't had anything strong *enough* to *drink* in days —

*Both* he and Aramis have *deep* shadows under their closed eyes — 

Porthos has always wanted to *ease* — 

To just bloody make something *better* — 

Any one *thing* — 

And then. 

Then — Treville steps through, just Treville, and he opens *his* eyes immediately, and they're pale and bleak and so — 

Hungry. 

He knows what that looks like now. 

He knows *exactly* what that — 

But it was never for *him* — 

And then Mum growls and *shifts* — 

Athos and Aramis open their eyes and blink rapidly — 

Daddy cups her shoulder — 

She shrugs him off and *advances* on the other Treville — 

Who shudders once, all over, and then just flares his nostrils over and over and over again. 

She jabs him in the *chest*. "*Why* are you here? Mm? Why did it take so *long* for you to realize that you must be a *father* to your *son*?" 

Treville flares his nostrils again — 

*Again* — 

And then turns to look at *him*. "I can't see him, Amina-love —" 

"*You* do not have the right to *call* me that!" 

Treville winces and turns *grey* — and nods. "Amina, then. Let me explain that statement. To both of you," he says, and he's still looking at Porthos. "Your brothers already know. Your brothers... I *felt* the magical resonance when you disappeared. I didn't know immediately that it was you who had been taken, but I knew that *someone* close to me had left the sphere. There are a limited number of people who that could've been. When your brothers came to me, worried sick..." Treville shakes his head once. "I called Jason. He came immediately. He is *my* brother — and my love," Treville says, and turns to Daddy. "Remember that." 

Porthos turns — Daddy is blinking and looking thoughtful. 

"We hunted for you, Porthos," Treville says, and looks into Porthos — 

Seems to almost *study* him — 

He growls and turns back to Mum. "We hunted day and *night*. Of *course* I needed to find Porthos. To find the young man I *longed* to have as my son. But I was *not* looking for the son I had with *you*." 

Mum frowns. "What... what are you saying?" 

Porthos swallows and nods. "The spells were never broken on — that sphere. He didn't know. He — you *still* can't see — can't *feel* — *fuck*," Porthos says, stepping back — 

"*Don't* —" 

"I —" And for a moment, Porthos can't think of what he has to do to break the spell, can't think of *anything*, can't — 

Daddy *yanks* him close and bites his ear — 

"Fuck —" 

"Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville," Daddy says, and *forces* Porthos to *look* at the other Treville — 

Forces Porthos to meet the man's eyes and see them widen — 

See them fill with *bleak* need as he shudders all over — 

See them fill with *tears* — 

Porthos can't let him — 

"Stay *right* there, sweet boy," Mum says, and grips *Treville* by the chin. "And speak to your *brothers*." 

"I —" 

"*Please* speak to us, Porthos," Aramis says, and that...

He's not touching Porthos. 

He's not *close* — 

He's — 

He's across the bloody *room*, and Athos is finding a way to stay in his *shadow*, and it's not like the attic is *that* sodding big, and — 

They don't do that. They — they don't. 

Daddy squeezes his shoulder and gives him a little push. 

"I — where's Blood —" 

"Doing his level best to distract my brothers from their desire to fall on your Athos like a pack of wolves, which, by the looks of it, Athos is appreciating." And Daddy raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos nods once — and leans in to lick Daddy's mouth because he has to. 

Daddy licks his right back, slow and gentle and comforting. 

It lets him cross the room to his brothers.

It lets him — look them in the eye. As much as Athos is letting that happen right now, which isn't very much — 

But Aramis cups his face, and turns Porthos to face him.

"Aramis —" 

"He is your lover." 

Porthos nods — no, more. "Yeah, and a lot more than that. I — it's the whole pack." 

Aramis shivers. "Even though they are your..." He frowns and turns away. 

Right. "You never have to deal with —

"Do *not* say this!" And Aramis is *glaring* at him — 

Baring his teeth and all but *snarling* — 

He — 

"Aramis —" 

"Porthos," he says, and that's the *dangerous* voice — "Porthos. Are you my *brother*." 

"I will *always* be your brother —" 

"And mine...?" And Athos's voice is quiet, and low, but — dangerous, too. 

"Yeah, mate — *brother*. You *know* that. What —" 

"Don't —" Athos hisses between his teeth. "I can't say this without being pointlessly accusing." 

"Then *I* will say it," Aramis says. "You did not *tell* us that you were in love with Treville. You did not tell us that you were so *deeply* in love with him that you would change your entire *world* for the chance to have his love in *return*." 

"I —" 

"Do *not* pretend that you have not. That you have not come to us to tell us *goodbye*, Porthos. I *know* you. You have always needed to fortify yourself with the touch of a loved one when you had to give *another* loved one sad *news* —" 

"You —" 

"But you will let us speak now, you will let us — this last *time*," Aramis says, and his hand is shaking on Porthos's face, and he's licking his lips — "We have *searched* for you, and when Jason told us that you had found another group of Musketeers, another *Treville*, we breathed *easier*, we had *hope* — we thought 'he is safe, and even if we cannot find him right away —'" 

"Aramis," Porthos says, and stops, just — 

Aramis stops, too, and his eyes are wide, and full, and open, so *open*, so — 

So bloody — 

He doesn't look at so many people that way. 

He looks at the *Queen* that way, when no one is paying *attention*, and then Porthos has to get them the sodding fuck *away* before all *hell* breaks loose, and — 

"I know that look in your eyes," Porthos says, and doesn't know what to *do* with himself, because — "I know — Aramis, bloody hell, why are you looking at *me* like —" 

"Because I —" 

"Aramis," Athos says, and *grips* Aramis's arm. 

They share a look — 

A bloody *desperate* — 

No — 

No, no — 

(Son. Think carefully about whether you *really* want to deny what's happening right now.) 

Daddy, I — I *need* you — 

(I need you. I always will. And I'll always love you —) 

Don't — I love *you* —

(I know that, son. And I will hold that to myself each and every day of my *life*. But your mother raised you to be an honest man, son. Honest with other people and honest with *yourself*. I will not ever *let* you hide from that,) Daddy says, and — 

Porthos can feel him. 

Feel his *gaze* on him, and — 

And there's only one way to respond to that. He stands straight, and he nods, and he looks at his brothers. 

Looks at the desperation in their eyes, and the hurt, and the *need* as they have a whole silent conversation that Porthos isn't invited to —

But could be. 

Porthos strokes Athos's cheek exactly the way he's always wanted to — and cups Aramis's face the way Aramis is cupping his. 

Athos squeezes his eyes shut. 

Aramis takes a shuddering breath — "I. Do not have... much control. Over myself." 

Athos swallows. "I have — enough —"

"Neither of you *need* control with *me* —" 

"Forgive me, brother, but I don't believe you can make that judgment for us," Athos says, and turns enough to face Porthos — and does nothing to move the hand Porthos has on his face. 

His eyes are *bleak* — but not in the usual ways. 

Not — 

And maybe this is where Porthos *has* to be even more honest than he has been. He nods. "Athos, I fell in love with you while you were still training me —" 

"Don't —" 

"I don't know when, exactly —" 

"*Stop* —" 

"But it was *after* the first couple of times I propositioned you. I always wondered if that was why — or part of why — you never took my offers seriously. Why you always just smiled that little smile — or even huffed that little not-laugh — and turned away. I have never fallen out of love with you, and I never will. I *dream* about you — awake and asleep," Porthos says, and watches Athos *pant*. 

Watches him *stare* — 

Porthos strokes his cheek again, nods, and turns to Aramis —

Who is shuddering all *over* — 

So — 

Porthos growls. "Brother. *Brother*. I told myself that you knew I was in love with you from the *beginning*, you know? That you *had* to know —" 

"I..." 

"Did you?" 

"I... thought. There were times when I..." And Aramis stares into him with wide eyes, *needy* eyes, *pleading* eyes — 

"You *thought* you knew, but you couldn't quite touch it? Believe it? What?" 

"It. Wasn't mine. It wasn't —"

"*Brother* —" 

"I thought, once, that keeping myself to a standard of 'pure' behaviour that I would not have recommended for anyone else was what I truly needed. A... sacrifice, Porthos," Aramis says, and hangs his head. 

And a part of Porthos wants so fucking *badly* to tear *into* Aramis right now, to just — 

For all the *time* — 

For all the *lies* — 

For the rosary that touched his skin every night that Porthos *didn't*. 

But that's not what you do with your brother, and he doesn't need Athos's warning look to tell him that. He needs his brothers for — 

For so many other reasons. And. He has to be honest. "I need you. *Both* of you. I've *always* needed you —"

"Porthos." 

"Athos, why the sodding fuck are you giving me the *command* voice?"

"Because you are here now, with a pack *I* know very well —" Athos growls and turns away — but only for a moment before he turns back. "I would *understand* if you wished to *stay* here, brother —" 

Aramis snarls again — and covers his face with both hands — 

And Athos squeezes Aramis's shoulder harder. "I would understand," he says again. "But not if you persisted in. In telling us how much you *loved* us *first*." 

Porthos grunts and jerks back — 

"Let it be clean, brother." 

"Athos —" 

"Let it be — but perhaps we don't deserve that. Certainly, I could've been more honest with you, and infinitely more *intelligent* with *myself*," Athos says, and bares his *teeth* — 

"*Fuck*, brother, don't *talk* about yourself like —" 

"Porthos. Are you saying *goodbye*." 

And this...

This is *exactly* what it is. A home, a family — a *pack* — and love, so *much* love for him over here —

And over there, two brothers who are honestly *angry* right now — he can bloody *smell* it — and — 

He looks to the Treville who *isn't* his Daddy — yet? — and he is *absolutely* clutching Mum and licking her and nuzzling her and nipping at her face and throat and shoulders while she does the exact same thing *and* pets him. 

That...

(I'm very impressed with my graciousness over here,) Daddy says. 

Porthos swallows a cough — 

And Daddy fills him with his warmth, with his love, with his *smiles* — 

And Porthos can breathe again. He can *think* — 

(Son... don't be too harsh on your brothers. They've been losing their minds for you, and I daresay they *both* believe *your* mind was made up before they even got here —) 

It — 

(They're fighting from siege positions, son. They're *fighting*. And they have, ultimately, very little reason to believe they won't lose.) 

Porthos grunts — and flushes. He has to do better. 

He *has* to. 

Daddy caresses his *spirit* — 

Porthos shivers and turns back to his brothers — 

And Aramis — who has dropped his hands again — is looking back and forth between him and Daddy. "You have been speaking with him. He has bitten you." 

"Yeah, he has. Aramis —" 

"Perhaps you think *our* Treville will not do the same? Mm?" 

"*Aramis* —" 

"*No*, Athos. You wish to make this clean. You wish us to be calm, and cool, and *fair*." 

"*Yes* —" 

"You may do this thing if you *wish*, my brother. I cannot stop you. But it would be a *lie* for me. And I. I cannot lie to my brother. Not if this is the last chance we have to speak." 

Porthos shudders — 

*Athos* shudders — and something almost seems to *crack* behind his eyes. He nods, once, and turns to Porthos — and tugs his kerchief down. 

Bite-scar. 

*Old* bite-scar — but. 

But the place where Daddy had bitten him had looked just as old as *Mum's* scar from when he was five — and, more to the point, Porthos has *seen* Athos's throat before. It. 

Porthos swallows. "Treville bit you... yesterday?" 

Athos raises an eyebrow — but then nods. "He bit both of us last week. For us, you've been missing for nearly two *weeks*." 

"*Shit* —" 

"Jason did tell us that time could move... differently," Aramis says, and smiling wryly. "You can see, perhaps, why we were so frightened?" 

Porthos takes a breath and nods. "You *have* to know I wouldn't have chosen —" 

Aramis raises a hand to stop him. "We know you did not choose to leave the sphere. But... let us make our case, mm?" 

"Oh, Aramis, you don't —" 

"Have to?" Aramis's smile, this time, is much more *heated*. "My Porthos, I believe I *do*..." 

Porthos grunts. "Don't — not that —" 

"No? Are you certain...?" 

"You don't *want* —" 

"My Porthos, I have *always*... wanted. And needed. And *dreamed*. And Treville — *our* Treville —" 

"He's not —" 

And then *Athos* grips Porthos by the back of the *neck* — 

"Bloody *hell*, brother —" 

"Treville made him admit it, brother," Athos whispers in his ear. "Treville made us *both* admit it. Admit *everything* —" 

Porthos growls low. 

"Is that anger, brother? Jealousy? Do you feel my godfather overstepped his *place*...? I believe he knew *precisely* — from the beginning — what *his* pack would do with a man like you —" 

"There is *no* one like our Porthos, my Athos," Aramis says, and *kisses* Porthos's other ear — 

"Aramis —" 

"Very true, brother. I misspoke," Athos says, and grips Porthos's neck *tighter* — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"Our Treville knew we would have to fight for you, brother..." And Athos is almost *purring* into Porthos's ear — 

"He knew we would have to give our *all*," Aramis says, and he's bloody toying with Porthos's *belts* — 

"He knew we would have to be *honest*, and, so, he *prepared* us," Athos says, and Porthos can hear his *smile* — 

"Uh. Prepared you *how*?"

Aramis's laugh is low and dirty and *evil* — 

Athos bloody *hums* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"He would not let us hide from ourselves, my Porthos..." 

"You — you —" 

"He would not let us hide from *anything*, brother," Athos says, "and I wonder if you could ever wish... well. Truly, it's only the fact that he's distracted at the moment that's keeping us from seeking his guidance —" 

"The way *you* are seeking the guidance of... the other Treville." 

"He — he's my *Daddy*," Porthos says, and he isn't sure what he's protesting, what he's *fighting* — 

"And... you have a Mother and Uncles, as well, now. An — Aunt," Athos says, and he sounds more thoughtful again, less *confident* — 

Aramis *stops* toying with Porthos's belts — 

That — Porthos shudders. "Fuck, don't stop, don't — I've always — I need this, I *need* this —" 

Aramis inhales sharply — "From... us?" 

Porthos growls and — can't. Aramis's voice is too soft, too hesitant, too *small*, and — 

And it doesn't make it better to kiss him like this, to cup his hip with one hand and shove the other into his hair — 

His perfect sodding *hair*, and Aramis is nodding for it — 

His lashes are fluttering — 

He's opening for the kiss so perfectly, so *sweetly* — 

He's *teasing* Porthos's tongue with his — no. He's urging Porthos's tongue into his mouth, inviting it, nodding more, and Porthos has to grip him by the hair like he'd gripped Uncle Reynard, has to, *has* to — 

Has to walk them back to the wall — 

Press Aramis to the *wall* — 

Aramis groans and *shakes* — 

Cups Porthos's arms — 

*Strokes* Porthos's arms — 

*Takes* his kiss, takes it and just — 

"Our Treville," Athos says, and leans against the wall beside them — "Our *father*, I should say —"

Porthos growls into Aramis's mouth and bites his upper lip — 

"Please, yes!" 

Fuck — 

Athos hums again. "Our father kissed him just that way... for a time." 

And that... raises a lot of different questions. 

(The three of you are raising all sorts of things in the other Treville,) Daddy says. (And the rest of us, too, to be fair.)

Porthos blinks —

Nuzzles Aramis because he bloody *has* to —

"My *Porthos*, I — mm — where did your thoughts go? To *whom* did your thoughts go?"

"I —" Porthos gives himself a shake and squeezes Aramis's hip with his left hand — and rests his right hand on Athos's chest. 

Right over his pounding heart. 

He needs — 

"My Porthos... is this a difficult question?" And Aramis sounds *brittle*, and that — 

"*Fuck*, no, I just —" He growls and licks Aramis's mouth, licks it again — 

Again — 

It's too *slack* — 

(He needs your words right now, son. They both do.) 

Yes, Daddy, Porthos says, and shivers, and pulls back *just* enough to meet his brothers' eyes again. "It's — this." 

"It's what, brother," Athos says — *not* asks — and — 

Right. Head *out* of his trousers. "What *you* said about — about *Treville* raised a lot of questions in my mind. About him, about me, about how he would *relate* to me — all of that."

Aramis frowns. "That is not all —" 

"No, it isn't, love. *Daddy* started *answering* those questions for me." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah, Athos. He answers *all* my questions. He *never* lets me — lets me go *without* answers. He can *feel* when I need answers, or just settling, and he's always right *there* with it." 

Athos nods — 

Aramis flares his nostrils — and they *both* turn to *glare* at the other Treville, who is smiling ruefully at them from a suspiciously shadowy corner near the bed Mum had been *sleeping* on for nine sodding years. 

"It smells like her, sons," he says, and strokes the footboard once before coming to join them. 

The shadows follow him for two paces before flying over to that Blood bloke, who is *absolutely* still talking to the rest of the pack — 

(He's telling us wonderfully cheering tales about just how *often* he — or the Jason who lives *here*, whom we absolutely *will* be spending a *lot* more time with — walks the spheres, son.) 

Oh — 

(And how often he does it with *guests*.) 

Porthos blinks — 

Grins helplessly — 

Daddy turns to wink at him — but his eyes are shining, and he's obviously *relieved*, and — 

And Porthos can *feel* that the rest of the pack is, too. 

That — 

(Tell them, son. *Tell* them. The other Treville knows all this, but he's a little too scrambled right now... well. I can't blame him in the slightest. To have lost his entire pack...) Daddy shudders and tightens his grip on Mum, who is absolutely still naked — 

She rumbles and tightens her grip on *him*, and the whole pack moves in closer together, almost as one — even the younger Porthos, who, with Aunt Marie-Angelique, is back up from the cellar.

It — 

It makes Porthos hungry, and it makes him feel *warm*, and it makes him feel *exactly* like he has at *least* one place where he belongs. 

(Always, son. But...?) 

Right, Daddy. Porthos takes a breath and turns back to his brothers — and the other Treville. They're all looking at him. They're all waiting for him to stop pissing about and say what he needs to say. "I haven't felt needed — not enough. Not the way I *needed* to be needed. I haven't felt like I had — enough of a home. Enough of a *family*. Part of that's just the fact that I lost my Mum when I was five, and nothing *ever* was enough after that, and I know — I know *all* of you know what that's about." 

They nod, but — they all look a little wounded, too.

"Part of it was — was the other deaths, the deaths of the family I built all round me when I was a boy coming up in the Court, and then after that, when I still had a *little* family left, and I had to desert them to become the man I needed to be. To become a *Musketeer*." He nods to Athos. "You and Aramis know a *little* about that, but I never actually told the whole story to anyone. I promise I will."

Aramis tenses — 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I could never leave either of you, you know. Not — not *forever*. I want to say, right now, that both of you should know me better than that, but the truth is that *I* didn't know me all that well." He nods at Daddy. "He just told me that Jason Bloods all over the spheres *walk* the spheres. That they can do what you all did today — move between the spheres with *guests*. *Easily* —" 

"You will... visit with us, my Porthos?" And Aramis sounds brittle again. 

Porthos inhales sharply — "That's exactly what that sounded like. I — no, love —" 

"You keep calling me —" Aramis growls and looks even *more* wounded —

And Porthos maybe needs to learn to watch his mouth *at some point before he dies*, but for now — "I call you my love because you *are* my love, Aramis," Porthos says. "I could never —" He shakes his head and growls. "I'm coming *back* with you. I — I'll have to leave sometimes, though." 

For a long moment, no one says anything. 

Not even on the other side of the *room*, where the *pack* is.

Aramis is just *searching* him — 

Athos is, *too* — 

"Look —" 

And then Treville rumbles, low and a little loud. 

Porthos blinks, because it's a sound he'd gotten used to from Daddy, but — 

But now he's looking into *Treville's* pale eyes, and they're as soft as they ever get, as warm, as *full* — 

So *hungry* — 

He cups Porthos's *shoulder* with his big, hard hand, and it feels so *wrong*, so — incomplete — 

That's not how Treville is supposed to touch him. It's not proprietary enough — 

It's not *claiming* enough — 

It — 

But this isn't Daddy. It *isn't* Daddy, and never mind what those eyes say; *Treville* doesn't want him that way, and Porthos can *deal* with that. 

He turns away — 

"Son..."

"Sir, I — uh. Just. I need a moment to get. To get back under control," he says, and shudders hard — 

And harder than that when Treville *grips* his shoulder and *growls* — 

"I — I've almost — I just need control —" 

Treville growls harder — "I can't." He *pants* — "I can't let you have that, at all," he says, and *yanks* Porthos close — 

"*Fuck* —" 

And the bite is a shock, but the fact that it's *exactly* where Mum had bitten him twenty years ago and where Daddy had bitten him last *night* — 

Well, that just makes sense, at this point. It — 

Fuck, Treville had bitten right through Baissier's borrowed *leathers* — 

Treville is — 

He's snarling and growling and whining and *lapping* — 

*Slurping* — 

*Messily* — Porthos can feel runnels of blood flowing down his back and chest — 

(*No*,) Treville says, breaking the bite and tearing open the leathers and Porthos's shirt so he can *get* to Porthos more easily — 

Porthos can't *imagine* putting up a *fight* — 

(*Good*,) he says, and bites again, bites *deep* — 

Please — *fuck* — 

And this time Treville is *sucking* at the blood, taking it *neatly* — 

Taking it *all* — 

Just — 

_And Porthos is looking at a memory —_

_Porthos is looking at his younger self in Treville's *office*, and it's his first day, his initial *interview*, and he's nervous and stiff and trying not to show it —_

_Right up until Treville makes him laugh *helplessly* at the story he's telling about his father —_

_Laugh and laugh *again*, and —_

_And Porthos is looking through Treville's *eyes*, and somehow all he can see of himself is how big he is, and how bold, and how strong —_

_How confident and secure —_

_How intelligent and brave and —_

What — 

(Wait.) 

But — 

_And he's looking at another memory, and he's in Treville's office again, and he's been training, and —_

_And he's looking through Treville's eyes, and so he can't see how filthy he is, and how much of a mess he's making with all his sweat and dirt and everything else —_

_He can't —_

_All he can see is how much stronger he's getting, how much *harder* he's getting, how much he's *improving* with Athos —_

_His godson —_

_His beloved —_

_And would it be too much to hope that this blisteringly funny and intelligent and kind and *wise* young man could *help* Athos find his laughter again?_

_Would it be too much to *guide* him —_

Sir, I've always wanted to give Athos *happiness* — 

(I *know*.) 

I — do you not want me to say it? 

(I want — I *want* —) 

_And Porthos is looking at a memory of himself wrestling, and — he knows this memory. He remembers this *day*, because it was *Ursos*, who *had* been known as the best in the regiment at hand-to-hand before Porthos *got* there, but who did a lot of things *wrong*. Porthos had offered to show him a few things in exchange for some pointers from *him*, and it had turned into a whole big *challenge*._

_Ursos's mates had been egging him on, and giving Porthos and Athos a lot of shite, and —_

_And there'd been nothing for it *but* to have a *public* wrestle. Settle things for a *crowd*._

_He hadn't expected the *Captain* to be watching them all make idiots of themselves, though._

_That just —_

_(You know better now.)_

_He does. He does._

_And —_

_He's watching himself size Ursos up._

_Watching himself take a few hits and dodge more._

_Watching himself find all the weak spots he already *knew* —_

_And *then* he's watching himself take Ursos *apart*. Not spectacularly and *not* showily — he hadn't done that sort of thing back when he was still the new bloke — but..._

_But he'd done it hard, and he'd done it fast, and he'd done it *well*._

_And he's watching it all happen —_

_And getting hard for it._

_Getting *hungry* for it._

_Getting needy for the scents of his own sweat —_

_His own *musk* —_

_Working hard to tease it away from the scents of all the other men, all the other shouting and cat-calling men, all the other men that he can't ever show a thing to, not one bloody thing, because there is not a single bloody one of them who can know how much he wants to take Porthos du Vallon home, make him *his*, bend him over and tongue him breathless, tongue him *mindless*—_

Porthos grunts — 

Blinks — 

Tries to *think* — no. No, just —

He has to get his *bearings* a little — 

He has to breathe and just — 

Treville isn't biting him anymore. 

Porthos can *feel* that the bite is healed — scarred over. 

Treville *is* gripping his arms and — staring into him. 

Panting.

There's not one *trace* of Porthos's blood showing on his mouth — 

And Treville gives him a *wry* look. "Did you really expect me to waste that, son...?" 

"I." Porthos licks his lips and — stops. 

*Breathes* — 

Just — 

Treville nods and moves his hands back to Porthos's shoulders. "We don't have to — touch that." 

Porthos stares at him. 

"I only..." Treville licks his lips. "I couldn't have you thinking that I didn't need you just as much —" Treville growls and shakes his head. "But we don't have to touch that —" 

"Are you bloody *mad*? Wait, what am I saying, I *know* what Trevilles are *like* now —" 

Treville *coughs* a laugh — "Son —" 

"That's it, isn't it? I was your son — even before you knew," Porthos says, and blushes. 

Treville growls — and tightens his grip on Porthos's shoulders. "Yes," he says, and narrows his eyes *exactly* like he plans to murder absolutely everyone who says different. 

That — Porthos steps closer. "I was your son — and you wanted me. *Hungered* for me — and my brothers." 

For a long moment, the murderous look just gets *darker* — 

"I'm not going anywhere but home with you, sir," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Treville takes a breath — and reaches up to cup Porthos's face with both hands. "My son. My..." He swallows. "I've never been any other way. Even before I met my Amina-love; even before my pack was my *pack*... the boys I picked up for a dalliance tended to get Daddied to within an inch of their young lives," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. *Painfully*. 

"Uh." 

Aramis coughs from behind Porthos — 

Athos hums — 

And that caress, deep inside — 

*That* was his Uncles — all of them, including Laurent. 

Uncles?

(Don't mind us, lad —) 

(Oui, oui, do not...) 

(But... hm.) And Porthos can *feel* Uncle Laurent's eyes twinkling. (Some things approach the level of mathematical constants, whether or not it seems they should.)

(*That*, lad,) Uncle Kitos says. (You're sharing all of this with us, and everything you *feel* —) 

Oh — I'm sorry — 

(Do *not* apologize, neveu!) 

But — 

(Don't make me come over there and whallop you!) And Porthos can feel Uncle Kitos beetling his brows so — so — 

So bloody perfectly. 

(Harrumph. All *right*, then. All we're saying is... don't get in your own way, hey? Don't let *any* of you get in your own way. Alternate Fearless over there is doing a *reasonable* job of this, and so are your brothers —) 

(And you, neveu, *are not being disloyal to us when you are letting yourself love them*,) Uncle Reynard says. 

(Especially since,) Uncle Laurent says, (you will be coming back to us time and time again.) 

I will!

(And bringing *with* you... your other pack,) Aunt Marie-Angelique says, and — 

And they all sound so *hungry*. 

So — right. 

Porthos nods, and swallows, and — yeah. Yeah, all right, he says — to absolutely *everyone* sharing his soul-space. This will work. "This will work," he says again, aloud, and nods. 

And nods to Treville. 

And takes one of his hands off his shoulder and licks it, heel to fingertip — 

Treville grunts — 

"I've wanted you from... not quite the beginning, but close, sir. You made me feel right in my skin. You made me feel like everything would *be* all right —" 

Treville growls *hungrily* — 

Porthos grins and waggles his eyebrows. "Now, I'm not going to say you don't have a lot to live up to — 'cause you do —" 

"Son." 

"Yeah?" 

"Your brothers have agreed to let me adopt them. Will you?"

Porthos's jaw drops. 

Just — 

He *looks* at his brothers — 

Athos smiles slowly. 

Aramis smiles *hotly* — 

"Bloody *hell*!" 

"I believe, my Porthos, that our Treville *will* live up to your expectations..." 

Athos bloody hums again — 

"All right, fine, but — wait." 

Treville raises his eyebrows and looks bloody *interested* — 

Athos raises an *eyebrow* — 

"Right, you can both sod off —" 

Athos *huffs* — 

Porthos had *missed* that — 

And Treville is snickering like a boy. Just — just for that. 

Porthos licks his lips and nods. All right, then. 

And then Aramis grips Porthos's chin and turns Porthos to face him — "My Porthos." 

"Yeah, love?" 

Aramis parts his lips — "I will not grow accustomed to you calling me this so quickly..." 

Porthos leans in and licks his mouth. "I won't grow accustomed to you letting us *have* this so quickly. What did you need to ask me? Tell me?" 

"What did *you* wish to say a moment ago?" 

"Right." Porthos smiles ruefully. "I already know Athos will be calling Treville 'sir' *right* through spending up his arse —" 

And that's the sound of Uncle Laurent choking — 

And *that's* the sound of Uncle Kitos whacking him on the back while thundering laughter — 

And *that's* the sound of Mum just — just *losing* it — 

The whole pack — 

The whole *pack* — but. 

But Athos is huffing that little not-laugh again — 

And Treville is *snickering* again — 

And Aramis is laughing so sweetly, so *brightly* even though it's quiet — 

Even that Blood bloke has a nice laugh when it's honestly *happy*, and — 

And Porthos can't help but wallow in it, *live* in it, live in *all* of it, move closer to Aramis and nuzzle him — 

Taste his mouth again and again — 

"Oh — my Porthos, I — mm — yes, *mm* — I —" 

"What are *you* going to call Treville, eh?" 

"Oh, wait, wait, I want to hear this, you berks," *Daddy* says — 

Treville *salutes* Daddy *obscenely* — 

"*Hey*! I let you make time with my Amina-love and everything!" 

Mum growls like grim death — 

"What? I did!" 

"You 'let' him make time with me, Jean-Armand...?"

"Oh... shit." 

Laughter all but *explodes* from the other side of the room — 

Daddy's *ears* droop — 

He looks *terrified* — 

And Treville grins like an *arsehole*. "It was, of course, my duty to —"

"Be an arsehole...?" And that was Blood, moving close to Treville once more and smiling. 

"Get his *lead* yanked, brother," Treville says, with exaggerated innocence. "He *needs* that kind of thing on a regular basis in order to feel right." 

"Oh, of *course*," Blood says. 

"I thought you'd see it my way," Treville says, and leans in to nip Blood's jaw. 

Blood shivers — "I always will..." 

Treville pulls back with a lick — "Well." 

"Mostly," Blood says, and grins — 

"*Mostly*, yes," Treville says, licking Blood twice more before turning back to — them. 

To Porthos and his brothers. 

To.

To the *rest* of Porthos's *other* pack, because he can *have* this — 

(You absolutely can, son,) Treville says, and he's looking right at Porthos — 

*Into* him — 

"I can't give you your mother. I can't give you Marie-Angelique or your Uncles. I can't give you anyone but *myself*, and much of the time that doesn't feel like very much, at all —" 

"*Amant* —" 

"*Sir* —" 

"My *Daddy*." 

Treville hums — and winks at Aramis before turning back to Porthos. "And now you know what he calls me when he wants me to pay absolute attention, son." 

"Right, but, we *all* know —" 

"That my little moment of self-deprecation was more honest than it wasn't...? That we do, son. That we do. Rest assured that I'm working on it, and that..." Treville shivers. "I will listen to my pack. To my *new* pack, because you boys will *help* me nail Jason's boots to the floor when he tries to disappear on us —" 

"I. You don't think that's rather gruesome...?" 

"— and you'll smack *him* around just as much as you smack *me* around —" 

"And *abusive* —" 

"— because he's *just* as likely to wallow in self-loathing and past 'failures' as I am," Treville says and *glares* at Jason. 

And Jason glares at him. 

For kind of a while. 

Athos coughs and looks to the *other* pack — 

And Uncle Laurent inclines his head. "We will watch for that... assiduously." 

"Oh, Asar's missing *cock*. You were in the middle of seducing your *son*, amant!" 

The younger Porthos makes a small squeaking noise — 

"Your father will not do that, sweet boy," Mum says. 

"All right!" 

"That's as may be, Jason, but you know I like to take care of everything on my plate in a timely fashion. If I have to leave off seducing my son to re-seduce you, then that's just what I'll do," Treville says, in that low and *solemn* voice, that I'm-not-disappointed-in-you-yet-but-I-could-be-soon voice — 

"You *arse*!" 

Treville winks and grips Jason by the back of the neck. "Come back here, mm? We have to show our children how agreeable we can be —" 

Jason splutters — 

"How open and friendly and loving and... cheerful? Sweet?" 

"You're a grumpy little bastard, Fearless, and you always have been!" And that was Uncle Kitos — 

Treville's breath hitches — 

And it occurs to Porthos that he doesn't actually know how much time Treville had given himself with the other pack — other than Mum. 

It couldn't have been much — 

It might not have been any time, at *all* — 

(A little, son. Enough time for... a touch,) Daddy says. (I don't know if I would've been able to give myself more, in his position.) 

Fuck, Daddy, that's not — 

(Perhaps you'll teach him better,) Daddy says, and looks him *right* in the eye. Mum's looking at him, too, even though she'd only heard half of the conversation — 

And that was more than enough for her. 

It — 

Porthos nods. He knows what he's to do. 

(Oh — no, son. It's not your mission. Don't think of it that way.) 

I — no?

(No. It's only... your mother and I have been talking about how much you need to be needed. How much you crave it. How much you *ache* for it...) 

Oh. I...

(Yes, son?) 

Porthos licks his lips and shifts on his feet a little. Treville needs me. He needs me — badly. 

(That he does. And so do your brothers. They'll *fill* you with their need, son. You'll never be empty again.) 

Porthos shivers. And you — need that. 

(More than anything,) Daddy says, and smiles wryly before burying his nose in the soft cloud of Mum's hair. (More, even, than this.) 

Oh... 

And Mum smiles, sharp and strong and healthy and alive, *alive* — "My *other* sweet boy will be full inside, even when he is not here with *us*." 

"Yes, Mum —" 

"And then you will come *back*... and be even more full," she says, and shows her *teeth*. 

Porthos rumbles just — helplessly. He has no choice about it. 

Mum nods once. "*Good* boy." 

The younger Porthos smells *extremely* thoughtful over there —

Well, thinking is good for — them, really. 

Both of them. 

All of them. 

So Porthos clears his throat in *that* way — 

(You have other ways to call us now, my Porthos...) 

Porthos doesn't repress his shiver, at *all* — especially since Aramis drags his fingertips over the back of his hand when he moves up on Porthos's left — 

And Athos flashes him a *hot* look as he moves up on Porthos's right — 

And Uncle Kitos is bloody cooing before they even *do* anything, but they can sodding *ignore* him and give them all a bit of Musketeer *flair* — *with* the extra flourish, thank you very much — 

And Aunt Marie-Angelique sighs. "Aramis, darling, I simply must know where we'll be able to find *your* teenaged self." 

Aramis flubs his flourish a bit — 

Porthos steadies him — 

"Ah — ah. Hm. Well. How... old? Is your — Olivier?" 

"Fifteen," Aunt Marie-Angelique says, with an avid look in her eyes. "How old will *you* be?" 

"Well. Ah. Well... you understand that Jason has taught us all about time moving differently on different spheres..." 

Aunt Marie-Angelique raises an eyebrow impatiently. 

Aramis coughs into his fist. "He is, if all is proceeding as it did for me, spending his last few months of happiness with his mother, his good mother, at Madame Margaud's, in the Merchant's Quarter." 

Daddy narrows his eyes. "And if not, son...?" 

Aramis's expression darkens. "My blood-father — he was my father in no other way — took me from my mother and brought me to a village near the Spanish border... before sending me away to a Jesuit school in Épernay." 

Porthos knows exactly enough of this story that he can't keep himself from growling, but *both* packs look and smell like a lot of mayhem *moments* from happening.

Blood clears his throat. "I will be able to help your Jason Blood find Aramis, should help be needed." 

Uncle Reynard nods once. "Bien. We are in your debt." 

The others murmur agreement — 

And Aramis looks dazed. 

Porthos cups his shoulder and squeezes — 

"I — they —" He turns to Daddy's pack. "You do not *know* me. You do not know the boy I once *was*!" 

"Neveu," Uncle Reynard says with a *wicked* smile, "we know you are notre *meneur's* son — " 

"And the *brother* of our other nephews. We *don't* rightly need anything else," Uncle Kitos says, beetling his brows and pretending to look fearsome. 

"We have longed to know, for quite some time, just what sort of people our Olivier would choose to have in his life," Uncle Laurent says, with a rueful smile for Athos. 

Athos blushes like fire. "I'm afraid they chose me — Father." 

"But you chose them back, son. Sometimes... that is, by far, the most important thing we can do for our loves. The most valuable thing." 

If anything, Athos blushes even *hotter* — "I — yes, sir —" 

"Please come back to us, son." 

Athos *jerks* — "Sir — you don't — you don't know —" 

"Porthos told me what was done to you —" 

"No —" 

"And I informed your mother, and we *both* warned Olivier and Thomas. We will be teaching them many lessons about this, as will the entirety of the pack," Uncle Laurent says, quiet and firm. "You can teach them still more," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Athos swallows hard and *sickly* — 

His colour is *gone* — 

He — 

"Brother..." Porthos and Aramis move to Athos — 

Grip him and *hold* him — 

"I can't. I *can't* —" 

"*Athos*." And Aunt Marie-Angelique's voice cracks like a *whip* — 

Athos looks up *immediately* — 

And Aunt Marie-Angelique nods. "You're thinking of how you have failed us. Yes?" 

"Yes." 

"You're thinking, perhaps, of the bodies in your wake *as* failures." 

"*Yes*." 

"I submit to you, son, that your dead are your *dead*." 

"I —" 

"More to the point: Your dead are, specifically, your *family*, on the one hand, and, on the other, the woman who you tried to *make* your family and who betrayed every covenant between you." 

Athos *flinches* — "M-Mother —"

"The dead must always remain *people*, Athos. Lest *we* stop being people ourselves," she says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Athos grunts — and stands straight, moving away from him and Aramis by a pace. There are tears rolling down his cheeks, but he doesn't seem to feel them. "Thomas — Thomas is not my failure." 

"No, son." 

"Anne. Is not my failure." 

"No, son." 

"Mother..." 

"Carry it through," she says, and never lowers her eyebrow. 

Athos swallows and nods. "Anne murdered Thomas, and he. He is one of my dead." 

"Yes, son."

"I had Anne *hanged*, and she is... one of my dead." 

"Yes, son," she says, and smiles, cheeks plumping up warm and soft-looking as she opens her arms — 

"Mother. I. I. It still feels..." 

"I know it does, son. But that is what the time we spend in the bosom of our *pack* is for. Come to me." 

"I don't believe I deserve —" 

"But you do. Husband?" 

"You do, son. You always have. I promise you that, and so do we all." 

They *all* give their agreement to that, *nice* and loud, even Yejide, who has *got* to be sick of them all over her attic by *now* — 

But Athos is shivering all over... and walking into Aunt Marie-Angelique's arms, just — 

One step after another after another, until she's holding him tight — 

Until she's stroking him and petting him and making him *vow* that he'll come to her — 

Come to *them* — 

Porthos checks — Uncle Laurent has his hands balled into fists and he's *staring* at Aunt Marie-Angelique and Athos like they have the answers to the meaning of *life*. 

"What — oh, got it," Uncle Kitos says, and — whallops Uncle Laurent. In the general direction of Athos and Aunt Marie-Angelique. 

He makes it the rest of the way on his own. 

Porthos swallows around the *hot* weight in his throat and checks on Treville — he's tugging Blood over to them. Their terrifyingly scarred-up hands are twined in a way that makes Porthos want to get to know Blood *immediately*. 

Just — 

That's just *warm* — 

(*He* is warm, my Porthos,) Aramis says, and kisses the corner of Porthos's mouth, moving in close again. 

Yeah, eh? And you don't want this conversation entirely public? And Porthos kisses Aramis right back — 

Aramis wraps his arms around Porthos's neck. (I want this. I want... are you mine?) 

Yeah. I am, Porthos says, and cups Aramis's hips. I want to teach you *exactly* what that means. 

Aramis grins. (I will let you do this thing —) 

*Excellent* — 

(And I will tell you that you will not be able to touch Jason until you share blood with him —) 

Uh. What? 

Aramis kisses him twice. (He is cursed, my Porthos. Cursed in *many* ways, and even though he is very powerful...) 

He can't get round those curses. Right, all right; I'll make sure to share blood with him straight away — 

And Aramis beams —

Kisses him *briefly* — 

Beams more — and turns to Blood, who is smiling at them wryly. "I *told* you that you had nothing to fear." 

"I — *you* told *him* practically nothing —" 

"Wait, wait." Porthos gives Blood a bit of a look. "Were you worried that I'd have to be convinced or something?" 

Blood gives *him* a sour look. "Sharing blood with me will *not* be like —" 

"Sharing blood with Daddy or — or *Daddy* —" 

Treville *growls* — 

Porthos *blushes*, but he can bloody well carry on. "I *get* it, Blood — *Jason*. You're *cursed*. It'll be *awful* in one way or another. Tell me *which* way it'll be awful and let's get on with it. Or — hunh." He turns back to Aramis. "You know me, love. Will I hate it less if I don't know it's coming?" 

"Yes, my Porthos." 

"Right, then, you should probably — BLOODY SODDING FUCKING —" And the rest of that is wordless *snarling*, because he's not just being *touched* by the world's hottest-crawlingest-awfullest-most-bloody-disturbing *everything*, he's being held *still* by it — 

Held and slashed and tasted — 

Slow and slick and horrible fucking — 

He can't move he can't fight he can't — but. 

He doesn't have to move. 

And he's not snarling anymore — he's just panting himself down, a little. 

His *heart's* still pounding — 

And that — is absolutely a tongue licking his arm — *just* his arm — healed. 

"Uh. Right." 

"See? All is well," Aramis says, and leans in to lick Jason's mouth — 

Jason shudders *hard* — and doesn't lick him back. 

"Oi, what's that —" 

Jason looks at him. "Neither of us mentioned that *one* of the curses on me... hits earth-mages harder." 

"Well, it's over, isn't it? It *was* bloody awful, but now it's *done*. You don't have to close in on yourself, mate." 

Jason's expression quirks. "I..." He lifts his hand *almost* to Porthos's face. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

"As you say," he says, and strokes Porthos's cheek. "Thank you." 

"You're *welcome*. Now hurry up and lick my Aramis. I'm not going to let too many people do that once we're back home and in falling distance of a bed." 

Jason *coughs* — 

"'Let', my Porthos...?" And that. 

That was the dangerous voice. 

The quiet, purring, I'm-going-to-enjoy-looping-your-entrails-round-the-furnishings voice — 

"Um. About that —" 

But Aramis laughs *hard*, laughs — 

Laughs bright and sweet and *big*, like Daddy's dog would say, and it's the most beautiful thing — 

The *best* thing — 

"Oh, my Porthos! I had to see how *much* like your father you were!" 

"I — I don't want to be *beaten* all the time —" 

"Are you *certain* of this...?" And the light in Aramis's eyes is high, sweet, *teasing* — 

"Oh, love, you're so *beautiful* —" 

Aramis laughs more and wraps his arms round Porthos's neck again — 

Porthos growls and holds him *tight* — 

"Mm — *So*. I will *always* be beautiful for you." 

"Yeah, eh? What should I do to earn that?" 

"*You* will enforce discipline." 

"I like that sound of *that*..." 

"Oh, yes, my Porthos. You will always decide who will lick me *when*," Aramis says, and his *tone* is teasing, but — his eyes really aren't. 

His *eyes* say that this is something he's been thinking about. 

Maybe for just as long as Porthos has, way down deep. 

So Porthos licks his lips and nods slowly. "I think I will, at that. Absolutely no one gets a piece of my love without my express permission..." 

Aramis pants — 

Winces with *need* — 

Pants more — "My Porthos..." 

"'course... this means I have to keep you satisfied." 

"Oh." 

"Mm. *That* means I have to keep you right by my side —" 

"Always, my Porthos?"

Porthos squeezes Aramis harder, releasing the tease. "Always, love. *Always*. We — all of us — go together. Or we don't go *anywhere*." 

Aramis cups Porthos's face and shudders all over — 

Shivers and obviously *aches* inside — 

His eyes are so wide and *hurt* — 

"Oh, love —" 

"I thought I would burst. From everything I'd never said to you." 

"Then tell me everything. Tell me — never *stop* talking to me, love —" 

"I will *not* —" 

"Perhaps," *Athos* says, moving up just as silently as ever beside them. "Perhaps we will never stop speaking to each other. *With* each other," And he's blinking, and he still looks stunned — *dazed*, really — 

And he smells a little like Aunt Marie-Angelique's perfume, and a little like Uncle Laurent's leathers — 

And he's smiling, quiet and small and *hopeful*. 

Porthos stops staring and *yanks* him into the hug with Aramis — 

Aramis does the same with — with *Daddy* and Jason — 

"Should I be telling you not to rush yourself, son...?" And then Daddy licks his *ear* — 

"Uhh..." 

"Why don't you take your time *thinking* about that question, Porthos," Jason says. And licks Aramis. 

"I'll just do that, then," he says, and licks Athos. 

Athos huffs. And licks Daddy, who smells so happy — 

So wonderfully *happy* — 

Porthos rumbles because he has to, because it's right, it's — 

It's *his*. 

And it's home — or will be, just as soon as Yejide kicks them all out. 

Porthos smiles, and hugs everyone tighter. 

end.


End file.
